Nostos
by Equilly
Summary: F.O. 73: Upon the death of Queen Lothíriel of Rohan, her nephew, Alphros of Dol Amroth, sets out to piece together the story of her part in the War of the Ring. Under construction, Éomer/Lothíriel.
1. Dol Amroth

A/N: To all those who have patiently followed and reviewed this story:

I've made the decision to scrap much of the old story and upload new chapters. When I first started this story, it was on impulse. It had been months since I'd last written a fan fiction, but I was so excited to finally publish a story here that I wrote without planning ahead. Predictably, I hit a roadblock. I've had to make the decision to chop off the last few chapters of Nostos- really, anything beyond the battle at Tolfalas (besides the Epilogue and final chapter that I will be posting), because Lothíriel decided that her story didn't need to be explored any farther (at least, not this time around). I apologize to those of you who hoped for more, but my hope is that this tweaked version will be a smoother, faster, more interesting read.

Thanks to all the reviewers who offered encouragement, suggestions, and advice over the course of this story's publication. I have taken everything you have said to heart.

To new readers: Enjoy the story!

I have chosen to write this story out of love for the works of J.R.R. Tolkien; no copyright infringement is intended.

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><p>Nostos<p>

1

-Out of Memory-

* * *

><p>73 F.O.<p>

Winter

* * *

><p>[excerpted from the collected letters of Eldarion, son of Elessar Telcontar, High King of Gondor and Arnor]<p>

_Cousin A.,_

_Well, she is gone now, and well pleased at having seen her little island. I suppose I must grant to her the pardon of the elderly. She wishes that I give you my thanks for your hospitality. I have sent word on to Cousin E. and the king and queen in Minas Tirith._

_Elfwine the Fair, etc., etc._

_._

_My dear cousin Eldarion,_

_I hope this missive finds you, your honored parents, and sisters well. It has been far too long since I have made the journey to Minas Tirith; rest assured that I will take it upon myself to gather up these old bones and venture into the depths of your stone mausoleum before the year is out._

_I thought I should inform you that Aunt Lothíriel has passed. No doubt messengers from Rohan have already brought the news to your father, but perhaps my account may shed some light on what is no doubt a woefully terse narrative. Cousin Elfwine, for his many excellent qualities, resembles his father in temperament if not in looks, and as you well know, he is not much given to loquacity, especially in regards to matters that he holds near and dear. As I too hold your family near to my heart, and as my aunt and uncle were beloved of your parents, I believe you ought to know the full tale of her death and her errand to Dol Amroth._

_I have enclosed the note Elfwine sent to me upon her passing, and with it I shall tell you the tale that has long since hidden behind the great annals of the War of the Ring. We are surrounded by legends, you and I and Elfwine, for did not our fathers snatch victory from the very jaws of Mordor? Your ancestors, and in part mine, are half-sprung from legends tbat shadow all others who wander near. Some stories that are so small as to slip from memory, yet great enough to tip the scales of history._

_Some weeks ago, Aunt Lothíriel came to Dol Amroth, accompanied only by a handful of guards and Elfwine. She had grown old, even with the blood of the Elves running in her veins; she told me that there was a growth in her side that none could remove. I remember it quite well, our conversation: the two of sat together by the fire, for she was very cold, in my study, and she said that she knew well that death was coming closer and closer-_

.

"I have but one request of you, Alphros."

The Prince of Dol Amroth looked into his goblet of wine. It could not warm the chill that had settled through his bones at the sight of the pain deep in his aunt's eyes and the age that had settled so clearly across the finely-cut features of that familiar face. "I shall grant whatever you ask of me, if it be in my power."

"I wish to go to Tolfalas."

"Tolfalas!" he exclaimed. "You cannot be serious. The old island off the coast of Belfalas? It has been deserted for-,"

"Years," said Lothíriel calmly. "Decades. I know."

"It is destroyed. Haunted, they say. There is nothing to see but the ruins of the old fortress."

"I know that as well," said the Dowager Queen. "I was there when it crumbled."

A myriad of questions begged to be asked, and answered, but Alphros, with the patience that came with age, reigned them back. "Aunt Lothíriel, you have the blood of the Elves, and of Númenor, in your veins. You cannot be dying- not yet."

She looked at him very gently, and he felt his heart tighten. His aunt was the last remnant of his childhood, for his parents and his uncles and grandparents had long since passed on. His earliest memories were of his father and his father's brothers and sister; he could remember very clearly his aunt Lothíriel taking his hand as they walked along the beach, remembered the sea-salted air of the harbors. He remembered strange new ships and flags and strange foreign languages, remembered clasping her hand all the more tightly, her murmured assurances. His mother had been a lady of Lebennin, his father busy with administrational matters, but his aunt had, once upon a time, doted on him and spoiled him. He remembered a wooden carved horse she had given to him when he turned five, and when she left for Rohan, she had for years written to him and sent him little tokens from Edoras.

"Oh, my dear child," she said gently, and took his hand in her own. If he looked away, he could pretend that they were both young once more. In truth, he too was growing old. "You need not mourn."

"You are the last of my father's family left," he said dully.

In the face of the stark truth, she was silent.

"Elfwine will miss you as well."

"He was crowned ten years ago and needs me no longer."

_He will always need you_, he thought, and bowed his head.

"I must see Tolfalas," she said, and he thought of the sea, inexorable, unending. "Alphros-,"

He looked up.

"Please," said his aunt, quietly. "I am so tired. I have just one last goodbye to say before I may find my home."

He scrubbed at his face, wished that he could anchor her to the earth, as though he could cling fast to this last remnant of his family. "Very well," he said. "We will take you there tomorrow. But first, tell me why you must go there."

"It has been so long," she said. Then, "Oft have I wondered where the road to Tolfalas began. There is, you understand, no clear line of demarcation, where a story begins."

.

_It began when she was nine and he seventeen, at first the occasional missive- hers carefully printed childish scrawls, his neater but with the careless hand of a near-man unused to confining thoughts to paper and ink- but as the years went by, they wrote to each other more frequently and Lothíriel found herself confiding the most trivial of details and the deepest of secrets to him, mostly because he had faded to only a mere shadow of a memory. It was much easier to confide in someone who had become nothing more than a shade._

_At first it was something secret- the thrill of the forbidden, the locked box she kept hidden under her bed. It was a pretty carved thing that her father had given to her, a sort of memory box, and there she kept the letters he had given her. On lazy afternoons she would unlock it- she kept the keys around her neck, as though they opened a treasure chest- and leaf through the letters, inhaling the perfume of vellum and ink._

_At first the letters had been trivial. She had told him of the sea, of the friends she made with the village children, her dolls, her new dresses, her brothers' antics. Later she would wonder if she had tried his patience._

_But childhood was a luxury of happier times, and rosiness and caramel-sweet afternoons began to fade as she grew older, and the shadow of Mordor began to extend fingerlings into their everyday lives. Her brothers grew darker, her father older, and Lothíriel wandered like a lost child through those years. Still, her treasure box remained, and the letters continued to arrive._

.

"I do not understand," he said. His stomach was knotted with the memories of the days before Mordor had fallen to the might of the West and the courage of the Ringbearer.

"Oft have I wondered," said the Queen, "where the road to Tolfalas began."

"Aunt," he said, "you have already said so."

Her eyes were clouded.

"Truly?"

He nodded.

"My apologies. You must forgive an old woman and her memory... In October," she said, "the Steward's son arrived in Rivendell, I am told, from where they would later to set out to begin their quest." She gestured impatiently. "In November of that year, your grandfather sent Amrothos and I from Dol Amroth. I was too young, and a girl besides, to remain within the reach of the Corsairs, and the healers told us that Amrothos would never ride in battle again. An old injury. We rode to Minas Tirith-,"


	2. Of Storms and Stewards

The serious Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth, faces Corsairs, Nazgûl, and a half-mad uncle through the War of the Ring, aided by a barely-remembered friend, strange dreams, her fun-loving brother, and a little bit of luck, and finds that a little bit of laughter can help to dispel the growing darkness.

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><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-2-_

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><p>As the day waned the storm began to cloud the sky, and by evening rain pounded the White City in icy driving sheets, soaking the riders who had made the trek from Dol Amroth. Lothíriel herself felt half-frozen and in no mood for her brother's jokes, and when he turned to her, already forming some snide comment, she snapped, "If you say <em>anything<em>, Amrothos, I will cut off your tongue and give it to the fishermen as bait."

He chuckled.

She did not.

"There are no fishermen here."

She was too cold to think of a suitable response.

The guards opened the gates for them and one hailed their captain, called out his name, but Lothíriel could not hear. Her fingers were numb on the rains. She didn't particularly like to ride, and only rote memory and years of Erchirion's determined tutelage kept her upright in the saddle. She would have been happy with sidesaddle, for that was most seemly, but her brother would have none of it.

"No sister of mine," he had said, "will ride sidesaddle without first learning to ride astride."

That was all very well for him, but she had only once-briefly!-been a rebellious child, and riding astride was unseemly. But- she quashed the thought that rose to mind.

And she did not like the city, for all that is was grand and sweeping and coldly beautiful. She preferred the sea.

The great gates of the Rammas Echor slammed shut behind them and then they were across the sweeping flat lands beyond it, the fields of the Pelennor that ran to the Anduin. By the light of day she supposed these were beautiful lands, lush and gold in the summer, with the mountains rising sharply to the right, and looming above the entire plain was the Tower of Ecthelion, but by night they were dark and empty. It was later and colder still when they reached the Great Gate and the guards pushed open the doors for them. _Almost there_, she thought, following the guards through the levels of the city, growing more and more miserable with each tunnel and gate, until finally they reached the seventh level, the Citadel of Minas Tirith, the seat of the stewards. The courtyard was empty and cold except for the shriveled trunk that stood in the center, a sad reminder of its state. There was no king of Gondor and sometimes she thought there would never be.

"The White Tree," Amrothos told her, as though she had never been to the city before.

"I know," she snapped, though she could barely move her lips for numbness. "I want to get inside."

"The Steward will see you," said the guard and she moaned a little, but they could hardly refuse their uncle Denethor.

"We could pretend not to hear," suggested Amrothos. "Go hide in our rooms."

She shot him a quelling glare. "Ignore the Steward? _You _may, if you wish."

"No, no, I wish to live through the night."

"I would not mind if you did not."

He laughed and she tried very hard not to respond in kind. Sometimes it was very hard to maintain her composure with Amrothos, but she was the Princess of Dol Amroth and as such she did not laugh, smiled only very politely.

She had heard tales of Findulias of Dol Amroth, who would have been her aunt, and sometimes she saw the sorrow in the set of her father's face, but often she wondered who that lady had been to leave such a broken man in her wake. Her uncle sat upon his throne and she saw his pain mostly clearly in his eyes, but where Imrahil's grief manifested itself as a gentled sadness, Denethor's became anger. But for all the lines in his face, the greying of his hair, he was the Steward, and even amidst his sadness he retained an air of power.

"The Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth," said the Herald.

Her curtsey was somewhat clumsy but he did not appear to notice.

"Amrothos. Lothíriel. How it pleases me to see your faces," said the Steward. "Please, dine with me."

There was nothing she wanted less, for she was tired and cold and sore, but propriety demanded obedience. Amrothos, subdued, agreed.

Denethor dined alone but for them; night had fallen early and the candles cast long, flickering shadows upon the walls. Watching his quick fingers, snatching bits of bread and meat like eels darting out of rocks, she found she was no longer hungry and, dropping her gaze to her plate, feigned interest in the food. Every so often her uncle's eyes darted to her face as though expecting to find some remnant of Findulias, but Lothíriel knew she bore only a faint resemblance to her aunt. It was Elphir, the eldest, who had his aunt's wide set silver eyes- Imrahil said it often.

_A true swan of Dol Amroth_, he had said when she asked him of his sister.

_Was she beautiful?_

_Very._

Silence settled over the table except for the scrape of silver on pewter, Amrothos contented sigh as he finished his goblet of wine. Lothíriel's was untouched; a princess should not be even tipsy. She noticed Denethor had barely drank any, either.

"Father tells us that Boromir has gone to Imladris," said Amrothos finally. "Sir." He was surprisingly diplomatic.

"Yes, yes. He had a dream."

"What did he dream of?"

Denethor said very coolly, "It is surely of little import to you, Nephew."

"Of course, Uncle. Forgive me."

Silently she watched the Steward's face, saw the anger, the suspicion, and underneath it all, the love, for Denethor had always loved his eldest son. But then, everyone could not help but love Boromir, for he was all that was good in the world.

Faramir, though, he was different, a different sort of love. Boromir _demanded _your love: he was larger than life, and she could almost see him now, tall and broad and laughing, his face bright and hair unkempt. He seized your love. Faramir was not so abrupt, and though most could not help but love him equally, if not more, it was quieter, almost respectful, love for his gentleness and kindness and nobility. She liked them both, but in Faramir she had found a kindred spirit, someone who appreciated her solemnity and understood it.

She raised her head to ask if he was in the city but then she caught her uncle's eyes. Something sinister burned in them, some darkness she could not understand. Then under the table she felt Amrothos's hand and absurdly she remembered one of his jokes about a fishwife.

She choked on a giggle and suddenly the darkness felt bearable.

"Imrahil fears the Corsairs," said Denethor.

"Yes," she found herself saying, "he sends us to you for safety, my lord uncle."

He made a sound of acknowledgement. "So he should."

Ambiguous, to say the least.

"Darkness comes upon us," said Denethor and suddenly it was as though he spoke to himself. "Death, darkness, take us all!" He jumped to his feet and pushed the table away from him violently. The plates and wineglasses crashed to the floor and she watched in silent horror as dark red wine spread across the floor. She did not scream.

He was not looking at them, but instead to the ghosts that seemed to lurk there in that room with them. Lothíriel was suddenly aware of how small it was, how close and stuffy the air seemed.

Her brother held out a harm—stay back, it said- and then said, very gently, "Uncle?"

The Steward turned on him very suddenly and Lothíriel was sure she no longer knew this strange animal with such fire in his eyes, this man who seemed only half-human. "Leave me!" he thundered.

And where Lothíriel would have turned and fled immediately, abandoning her precious dignity to the wind, her silly, feckless brother bowed deeply and slowly. "Uncle."

Outside he took her hand. "We must be very careful." His eyes were serious.

"Yes, I see that." She shivered a little. "Why did Father not warn us?"

"Perhaps he did not know."

She thought of the morning they had rode along the beach, watching the cresting waves, the horses plunging into the breakers. There Imrahil had told her very gravely that she would be going to Minas Tirith and she would stay there until it was safe to leave, and she'd asked him why.

_A strange darkness stirs_, he'd said and then reached for her hand. She let him take it. _Elphir and Erchirion are too old for me to guard now. But you you and Amrothos, let me hold you safe for just a little while longer. Go to the White City. For me._

It was still raining and Amrothos wrapped a careless arm around her shoulder. "Well," he said lightly, "that didn't go as planned."

"Must you poke fun at everything?"

"Lothíriel," he said, "that is the only way to survive. We must find the joy in every moment, even if we must make it ourselves."

She frowned. "I don't understand."

"I hope you learn," he said, and for once he was serious, "because you will need it if you wish to survive these dark days."

For all his madness (dare she say it? The Steward's madness?) Denethor had given to her comfortably furnished rooms, though she supposed that task had fallen to the housekeeper. It was a role Lothíriel herself often assumed at home in Dol Amroth and one she carried out well, if she would allow herself to be immodest. She liked it, adding up the sums in the household books, taking pride in the physical well-being of their lands and people, and the result was distinctly tangible. There was nothing so beautiful to her as a well-balanced year, profits greatly surpassing expenses, followed by her father's warm but unsurprised praise. It had been a comfortable existence at Dol Amroth and she had been content with her library full of books, her brothers' occasional teasing, her role as the keeper of her father's household, her letters to Aldburg, and of course her frequent meanders along the beach. Now it seemed that world was gone, even the precious sanctuary of her beaches threatened by the Corsairs of Umbar.

She let her hair fall free of its plait and the maid brushed it out until it lay soft and smooth down her back. In the low yellow light of the room her face seemed very childish and at the same time very grave, hovering at the brink of discovering adulthood.

"Are there any letters for me?" she asked.

"None, Highness," said the girl. She was a timid little thing and Lothíriel sighed a little impatiently. She could not stand people who did not at least look her in the eyes when they spoke.

"Thank you," she said, voice clipped, "you may go."

It was too soon to hope for a reply; she had sent off her letter only a scant week ago, and the courier had miles to travel before Éomer would receive it first here, to Minas Tirith, and then on to Rohan with the rest of the mail bound for Aldurg, the seat of the Third Marshal. She supposed it was dreadfully long route for a letter, but her father frequently sent couriers to Minas Tirith and very rarely to Rohan, while the Steward had more occasions to write to Rohan. Besides, though she had not exactly kept their correspondence a secret, she did not think anyone else knew of it, and by sending it to Aldburg by way of Minas Tirith allowed it to remain unknown. Dol Amroth was actually not far from Rohan and if she was feeling particularly fanciful, which she very rarely did, she thought she could see the vast plains from the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Belfalas. It had been Éomer who kindled her interest in the Rohirrim, at first those ten years ago when they met in Edoras, and then through his letters.

_We have a sea here, too_, he had offered, _though of grass, not of water. But at least you will not drown in ours._

_You cannot swim in yours, either_, she had retorted.

She missed him and wanted to ask him about laughter, if Amrothos indeed was right. Somehow she thought he would agree.

She drew the curtains to hide herself from the pounding rain and stood in front of the mirror. Hesitantly she tried a smile, but it settled strangely and awkwardly on her mouth. Perhaps if she smiled long enough she could convince herself.

And then she could not help but laugh at her own foolishness. What a strange child was she!

* * *

><p>Amrothos was disgustingly cheerful but a welcome source of information, and it was from him that she learned Boromir had left some months ago, in July.<p>

"July!" she exclaimed. "So long? Then surely he has reached Imladris?"

Her brother had already devoured three rolls. "That I do not know, and nor do I care at the moment."

"I do not believe that elves exist," she said.

He laughed at her. He seemed to enjoy it. "Well, Boromir is decidedly level-headed-,"

"See? That is no flaw!"

"I did not say _serious_," corrected Amrothos, "but rather level-headed. Meaning he will not fall for some fantasy. _You_, on the other hand, would not laugh if Sauron himself danced in front of you in a nightgown. Boromir would."

She snorted into her teacup. When she had regained control of herself, she said, "He would laugh, I suppose, and then skewer him. I would have ordered the guards to skewer him from the start. Then our purpose would be accomplished, would it not?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. But you missed the point."

"I did? What was it?"

"Most decidedly. But Boromir would not run off to some mythical elf-haven without some degree of certainty."

"Did Father speak to Faramir when he came?" she asked, for Imrahil had come to the White City some weeks before they left to meet with the Steward and his son while Lothíriel and Amrothos prepared to leave Dol Amroth.

Both Amrothos and Erchirion had learned to be patient, for Lothíriel was insatiably curious, and he answered, "Father left me only a brief missive, for he rides to see to our defenses in South, but he says that Faramir is at Osgiliath."

"Osgiliath!" she said. "Is that not the fort that he and Boromir defended so valiantly?"

Amrothos smiled very proudly, for they had all been pleased to hear of their cousins' bravery. "It was." Then his face darkened and he said, "I wonder at Father's sending us here, for if Osgiliath falls, then so too falls Minas Tirith."

"Surely with the Corsairs in the south, it is safer here?"

"I suppose so." Then he smiled and raised a hand for a servant. "I am _starved_. Are there any more rolls?"

"You will grow old and fat," she said.

"Old, yes. Fat, no."

Outside the weak December sunlight shone on the city and she wondered if last night's dark was just her imagination. "Will the Corsairs attack Dol Amroth?"

"I haven't a clue. Is that marmalade? I love marmalade."

"No," she said sharply, "It is apricot jam. Will you answer my question?"

"Damn. I suppose I don't like marmalade all that much anyway. It's far too bitter. Pass me the blueberry jam. Or is it jelly? Somehow jelly seems much more… wobbly."

"Amrothos!"

"The answer to your question is that I don't know and I don't care to discuss it. It is far too nice a day-,"

"It's in the middle of winter!"

"-yes, and still there is a bit of sunlight. It's far too nice a day to discuss such nasty matters."

She glared at him.

"Don't look at me like that. Go to the library and find yourself a new book. See the city a little bit. You'll take a guard, of course."

"Of course," she snapped.

The maid appeared, the same one who had very timidly dressed her that morning, and Lothíriel bit back a scowl at the sight of her quavering face.

"Yes," she said shortly, "come in," and then she spotted the paper she clutched in her hand. It was too soon for Éomer to have replied, but perhaps- "What is that?" she asked and Amrothos looked a little startled at her brusqueness.

"From the Steward," said the girl and though Lothíriel had not really expected anything more, her stomach still plummeted into her neatly embroidered slippers. She should have known; it was much too thin to be a proper letter from Éomer. She bent her head to survey her half-eaten roll with great interest, but Amrothos had already caught sight of her face.

"Why, were you waiting for something?" he asked, and then looked more closely. "Lothíriel? Are you all right?"

"Of course I am." It was silly to be so upset over a _letter_ from a man she had not seen in ten years and she pushed back her chair. "Good day," she said crisply, "I will go now-,"

"Lothíriel," said her brother, holding up the note, "he wishes to see you."

She stopped, already almost out of the small, sunlight room. She turned to look back at her brother. "Me?" she managed to ask. "What does he want from me?"

He shrugged and she felt icy fingers trail up her spine. She was afraid. She swallowed hard and squared her chin but found she could not control her voice.

"Amrothos-,"

Immediately her brother was on his feet to take her arm and then he said, "Don't worry, sister darling. Just imagine him in his nightgown."

* * *

><p>She tried, she honestly did, but standing there in the cold stony hall of the Citadel she felt very cold. The length of the hall yawned between her feet and her uncle's dais, where he sat in the massive stone chair beneath the throne, and between them stood the lines of fabled kings, their faces stern and unyielding. They did not approve of her.<p>

"My lord uncle," she said, and though she was so frightened as to tremble, somehow her voice was clear and strong, carrying across the distance between them, and at last he raised his head.

There was power in his gaze, though he might be old and saddened and half-mad. She would do well to remember that.

Amrothos had walked her to the Citadel, his voice light in her ear, and she had clung to him very surreptitiously when they arrived, for she would not have the guards see her fear.

"You'll be fine," he said with a smile. "Go and curtsey and smile and then you can go read."

Easy thoughts outside in the cold December sun, but in this drafty hall she found it hard to swallow. The kings of old gazed down on her slow, faltering progress to the dais, and she flinched a little under their hard stares. By the Valar! They were dead! What could these long dead stone memories do to intimidate her? So she raised her chin very proudly, for though this man might be the Steward of all Gondor, she was the Princess of Dol Amroth and the daughter of the Elves and the Númenór.

She wondered what sort of nightgown her uncle would wear. If she were Amrothos, he would suggest something bright pink and very lacy.

"Uncle," she said again, "you wished for me to come?"

He raised his head to meet her gaze. "Lothíriel. You have come." He raised his hand and the servants came with stool for her to sit on. She arranged her skirts as best she could and sat, tilting her chin to look at him, for he sat high on the dais.

"Of course," she said, "you summoned me."

"So I did," he said and he seemed very lucid. Surprisingly so. "You have come to Minas Tirith for shelter."

"Yes, Uncle."

"Your father tells me he fears the Corsairs. What do you know of them?"

"Very little," she said, "save that they hail from the south."

"Aye," he said, "they were once of Númenór, like you and I, but how the mighty have fallen! Your father was right to send you here. Do not worry yourself, Niece. You will find safety here."

"Thank you."

Then abruptly his eyes darkened. "War comes to us!" His gaze was feverish, resting not on her but on something only he could see, and Lothíriel could only draw her arms around herself. "Death take us all! Death and madness!"

"Uncle?" she said.

He turned on her, but abruptly his voice gentled. "You do not look like your aunt."

"No," she said, "no, that is Elphir."

"She loved the sea very much," he said, "she could not bear to be parted from the sea. She loved me very much, you know- my dearest, was she. But the sea, it called to her!"

She could not move, could only watch his face, the spittle that flecked his lips, the madness that seemed to take his eyes, and she was frightened. Was it her death that had moved him to such madness? Suddenly she could not conceive of ever loving anyone, for this was what it brought: grief and pain and destruction.

She gathered her voice, though it trembled. "Uncle, I would go." She should wait for him to dismiss her, but she could not remain here.

He turned back. "No! Stay just a moment longer. Niece."

Lothíriel was trembling, but she clasped her hands together in her lap.

"You have her voice," he said, "she used to sing when they were very young. Lullabies. Do you sing?"

"Rarely," she said, "my brothers wish to hear only bawdy songs, and those I will not sing."

He laughed, throwing back his head and she smiled, too. "And would they teach them to you?"

"Amrothos would!" she exclaimed. "He would make me a laughingstock!"

"Your brother has always been a mischief-maker," said Denethor, "as were you once."

"I?" she said. "I am not anymore, though."

"No," he said, "no, you are quite the young lady, are you not?"

She wasn't sure if it was a compliment, for there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice, so she remained silent. Such an audience! But there was a light in his eyes and she fancied this was the man he had once been, a man of wit and intelligence, the man her aunt had fallen in love with so many years ago.

_He was not always as he is now_, Imrahil had told her, _for Findulias loved a very different Denethor. But that was many years ago and I do not believe much of that man remains now_.

"And tell me, my young lady, how fares the Third Marshal of the Mark?"

She froze. Her breath tore at her throat and she stared up at him in shock, like a stunned rabbit. A stupid, pathetic rabbit, slow enough to be caught, but why did she feel as though she had been snared? There was nothing of which to be ashamed!

"There is no need to lie to me, Niece. I see much. Much that you do not understand, from the corners of this land to the plains of Rohan to the East."

But she could sit there no longer, letting him scrutinize her as though she were on display, as if she were another of his pawns to push around on a chessboard. It must be the air in this city, she thought, that makes me act so, because I am accustomed to my role as a pawn, but for the world she could not sit there under his probing grey eyes and feign indifference. "You dare," she hissed at him, suddenly and coldly furious, and then she turned her back on her Steward.

He could send his guards after her, but she would not acknowledge him, would not let herself become a pawn in her hands.

Amrothos would laugh at her, she thought.

"Drinks," he said, "you look half-dead."

She did not reply, and mutely leaned into him.

_How did he know? _

He must have seen the letters and read them, that was the only answer, but she knew it was more than that. Denethor was a cunning man, but a powerful one, one who did not stoop to reading a young girl's mail or even a Third Marshal's, for it was wholly innocent.

To the East, he had said. He saw beyond her letters, far beyond such trivialities. This was the voice of a man who desired to hold the world in his hands, to read its future.

It must have been some sort of tavern that he took her to, though Lothíriel had never been inside a tavern before, and he left her sitting at a table and then he was pushing a steaming mug into her hands.

"Drink," he said. "It's spiced cider."

Something possessed her to say, "I might need some ale."

"Well," he said, "I never thought the day would come when you would say so, but I suppose I must be the responsible older brother and say no. Lothíriel, this is my friend Taregon of Mandolin."

She realized that there was another man sitting across the table, one near her brother's age. He offered her a smile.

"Princess," he said.

She must have acknowledged him, for he nodded to her, and she fell into silence, tracing the rim of her mug and listening to their conversation. They were good friends, for their words rose easily and lightly, and they laughed often. He seemed a good man, if a little quieter than her brother, but Amrothos seemed to relax in his company. He was handsome, she supposed, with finely cut features and strong hands that he flexed on the tabletop.

Amrothos was telling the story of her falling asleep on the journey to Minas Tirith and the men both laughed, though Taregon's eyes crinkled at the corners. She thought his eyes were very kind.

"My brother will have you think that I am a poor horsewoman," she protested, "and that is not so!"

"I suppose not," he agreed, "although you were terrified of your first pony!"

"I was not!"

"She wouldn't go near the poor beast for a while month," Amrothos told Taregon.

"Horrors," she said crossly. "But I am an excellent rider now."

"Yes," he said, "I will give you that, though you do not enjoy it."

"Because my horse is old and stupid!"

They both laughed again and then she did, ruefully. "Or I used to enjoy it," she amended, "I did, 'member?"

"When we spent the summer in Rohan," he said, "yes, I remember." To Taregon he explained, "When she was but nine years old we went to Edoras for the summer."

"So you have told me," said the other man. "Is the ale as good as they say?"

"Better!" laughed Amrothos, "though I was scarcely fourteen then!"

"He has been drunk since the day he was born," said Lothíriel, straight-faced, surprised at her own levity.

"Of course he has," said Taregon, "I never doubted it."

"You two are good friends?" she asked.

"Yes," said Amrothos, "we met some years ago, on one of those terrible marches. He has somewhat of a good head for the drink."

"And that recommends him to you," she said, but smiled at Taregon.

"Of course, Princess," he said.

She flexed her fingers. "Amrothos, I think I will go to the library now," for though he did not seem to mind his younger sister's company, she thought he would prefer to be with his friend.

"Lothíriel," he said, and she turned. "Are you well?"

She paused, considering, but she did not know the answer herself. "Yes," she said at last. "Yes, I am well."

The cold air was like a blow to her face as she stepped outside.

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><p>If you are one of those rare souls who happens to be reading this story, please review! I will love you forever. I would love your feedback, especially on the characterization!<p>

Best!

-claire


	3. The Houses of Healing

The serious Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth, faces Corsairs, Nazgûl, and a half-mad uncle through the War of the Ring, aided by a barely-remembered friend, strange dreams, her fun-loving brother, and a little bit of luck, and finds that a little bit of laughter can help to dispel the growing darkness.

A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed! They totally made my day :) A special thanks to Lady Demiya's feedback; the addition of dates in this chapter is thanks to her, but thanks to all of you who took the time to review! Major love to you guys.

Kudos to anyone who:

a. Guesses what the meaning of the title is.

b. Knows what the third quote means.

* * *

><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-3-_

__December 3018-January 3019_  
><em>

* * *

><p>"Many others of Elrond's household stood in the shadows and watched them go, bidding them farewell with soft voices. There was no laughter, and no song or music. At last they turned away and faded silently into the dusk."<p>

"'Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir,' said Elrond, 'until you stand once more on the borders of your land, and dire need is on you.'

'Maybe,' said Boromir. 'But always have I let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night.'"

"_Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim_."

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><p>It was December the twenty-fifth, and the Fellowship left from Rivendell at Dusk. It was said that those of Númenór were blessed with some measure of foresight and that night she dreamed of a haven, but beyond it laid a world of ragged clouds and shadows and bare, hanging tree branches. She fancied that she could make out a face - one she knew very well- but since it was a dream she could not recognize it, and then dimly she heard the sound that was the Horn of Gondor, echoing through the rocks and valleys and mountaintops.<p>

Then Lothíriel awoke to the grey dawn.

The library of Minas Tirith was blissfully warm and by midday she had firmly ensconced herself in a comfortable chair with her newfound friend- a history of Eorl the Young- when someone cleared her throat.

And again.

Finally it dawned on her that someone wished to speak with her, and she looked up. It was a girl, or a young woman, not six months younger than Lothíriel, with a cloud of brown curls, wide blue eyes, and stubborn chin.

"Hello," she said rather blankly.

The girl smiled widely. "Hello," she said, "you must be Lothíriel."

"Yes," she said, "yes, I am," and remembering her manners, she reluctantly set aside her book, rose, and curtsied very slightly.

"I am Kallista," said the girl, beaming, "Amrothos told me I would find you here. Come!"

"What?" she managed, and then girl grasped her arm very firmly and began to tow her outside as though she were a pack mule, keeping up a steady stream of conversation the entire way.

"Thank goodness you're here, because there's no one else who's sensible in the entire city, and with everyone dead or gone or ill, we need the hands. You look so like Amrothos, you know; I would have known who you were even if he hadn't told me what you looked like. He's such a dear, isn't he? But silly, of course."

"Yes?" she said. "Where are we going?"

"The Houses of Healing, of course!"

"The what?"

Kallista smiled cheerfully. "Oh, did Amrothos tell you? That's where I work. Well, not work, because I don't get paid, but I'm told I have the hands of a healer. Isn't that nice?"

"Yes," she said more firmly, "that is very nice. Kallista, why are we going to the Houses of Healing?"

The girl's stride slowed and she turned. "Amrothos said you would love to help, of course."

She rubbed her forehead. "I've never been to a House of Healing before in my life. I think it's best that I not ,"

"Oh, don't be silly! You'll learn. I don't do much, either, just stitch up the wounds and sometimes I help with the amputations, but mostly I change the sheets and bedpans."

"Bedpans?" _Amputations?_

"I know, it's a little strange at first. But don't worry! You'll get used to it. I did, but it took time."

"Kallista," she said, "is it, well, proper for us to do this?"

"No," the girl said after a moment, her eyes suddenly clouded, "no, I don't suppose it is. Actually I know it isn't. But that doesn't matter, does it?"

Lothíriel met her gaze and tried to explain that _yes_, propriety was very important, especially for a princess of Dol Amroth, but found that she couldn't, for Kallista's eyes were wide and pleading. "No," she said. "I guess not."

Kallista's answering smile was tremulous. "I'm so glad- no one else thinks so. Oh! Let's go find Ioreth." She squeezed Lothíriel's hand tightly.

The Houses of Healings were set behind lawns and a canopy of trees, but in the winter the leaves had fallen, leaving the branches brown and empty. She shivered a little bit and wrapped her cloak around her more tightly.

"I forgot to ask," she said, "how did you meet my brother?"

"Oh! He didn't tell you?"

"No-,"

"Taregon is my older brother," said Kallista, "and I helped to care for Amrothos last year when he had his accident."

She felt a little heavy, thinking of his accident, but she said, "You must know him well, then."

"Yes, of course!" Kallista laughed as though she had said something very funny.

"Are you," she paused, "and Amrothos, well, courting?"

This only made Kallista laugh even harder. "Oh, Lothíriel, Amrothos didn't say you were so funny!"

She opened her mouth to demand an answer, for she had no intention of being funny, but then they were inside one of the Houses. Instantly Kallista seemed to grow taller and she said, "An apron, Lothíriel- take it!"

An older woman said, "Kallista, come with me-," and Lothíriel followed them both, feeling rather useless and taken aback by the crowd. The House was a place of peace yes, for it smelled slightly sweet, as of herbs, but she could taste the sweat and blood in the air. She heard muffled cries and in the room the healer took them to, a young boy laid in a bed, his sobs faded to hiccoughs. He was young, barely ten years old, and his face was like a pale oval moon.

Then she looked at his arm and her stomach began to roll. It was crushed- mangled beyond belief, and she had to look away for a moment.

"We've given him something for the pain," Kallista explained in a low voice, "and something to dim his mind."

"What will you-," and then she saw the knife the healer wielded.

I'm going to be sick, she thought, I'm going to be sick.

"Bandages," said Kallista.

The boy's eyes were foggy and she thought, please let him sleep.

"Hold him," said the healer very curtly, pushing hair out of her face. She was cleaning the blade. Kallista readied the bandages and then bent over the boy.

"We tie off the vein," she said, "hand me that thread-,"

She did. "Why?"

"So it won't hemorrhage."

Blood, she thought dizzily. She could smell it in the room; she could taste it. She wanted to faint, though she had never fainted before in her life; she wanted to close her eyes and turn away, but she saw the grim determination in Kallista's face, the pain in the boy's, even though he was unconscious. The healer raised the knife.

She would not faint. She clenched her hands so hard that her nails dug into the skin and had to avert her eyes. The boy was twitching, and she found herself dropping to her knees, clenching his hand in hers. "Shh," she whispered, though he was not even conscious, "shh." She did not particularly like children and had very little experience with him, but at that moment she wanted to wrap him in her arms and take away his pain.

But she couldn't.

She steeled herself to look as the healer continued to cut. The boy's face only faintly registered the pain, but he twitched. She brought her weight to bear across his chest.

"Hold him still," ordered the healer.

She didn't answer.

Kallista was helping to sew a flap of skin over the shorn bone, and when she tied off the heavy thread, Lothíriel felt a sudden rush of heat.

The healer looked at her sharply. "If you're going to vomit, do it out the window. That arm needs to stay clean."

"I won't," she managed to say, "be sick."

Her eyes softened and she smiled a little, wiping her hands on a clean white towel. The cloth came away stained with blood, though Kallista had tied off the vein. "No. I don't think you will be."

Lothíriel raised her head. She was the princess of Dol Amroth and she would not be sick. She gathered herself and got to her feet. "I'll take the cloths to the kitchen?"

"Down the hall," said Kallista, pointing.

It was warm in the kitchen where mammoth kettles of water boiled on the stoves, and the steam hit her full in the face. A woman said, pushing grey hair away from her sweaty face, said, "Scrub those."

She did, even cringing from the blood, because a princess of Dol Amroth did not flinch. She had sat at her mother's bedside while she coughed up great mouthfuls of blood; surely this was no different.

Kallista found her there, and for a moment Lothíriel didn't recognize her friend because her face was smeared with blood.

"Lothíriel," she said, her face somber, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- well, overwhelm you."

She concentrated on the soap in her hands, scrubbing the blood from the cloth. Her hands were bright red from the hot water. "It's all right." She pressed her lips together.

Kallista's hand was gentle on her shoulder. "Let's go. You need some air, I think."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes. All right."

They took off their aprons and outside, she knelt in the wet grass, ignoring the wet patches seeping into her knees. The sun felt very cold and she relished the taste of sweet, clean air.

"I'm sorry," she said, keeping her words even, "I didn't mean to-,"

"I forget that not everyone has a head for blood," said Kallista. She arranged herself onto the grass beside Lothíriel. "Forgive me?"

"Yes, of course," she said, nodding. "It was- interesting."

"Would you like me to take you back home?"

"No," she said, "I can find my way."

Kallista's face did not register any emotion. "All right." She held out a hand. "It was very nice to meet you, Lothíriel. May I call on you sometime?"

Absently she noticed that the other girl had neglected to use her title, but she did not mind. "Of course," she said, "but I will see you here tomorrow morning," thinking wistfully of the warm library, the stacks of books to be read. But she could not forget the little boy's white face.

Kallista smiled. "I will see you then."

"What happened to him?"

"A cart rolled over his arm. It was too crushed to keep."

She nodded again, pressing her face into her knees. "Well," she said, and pushed herself to her feet. Suddenly the world seemed very cold and unkind.

"Lothíriel," said Kallista, and then she smiled. "Thank you."

* * *

><p><em>In. Out. Back. Tight. <em>She found the steady pull of the needle through the cloth helped to still her mind; it settled her thoughts on the design. Today it was a seagull swooping over the waves, and though her stitches were neat, they did not have her mother's creativity. Her mother had loved to sew and her tapestries hung about the palace in Dol Amroth: she had embroidered the story of Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel, of Helm Hammerhand, of Idril Celebrindal, of Eärendil the Mariner. Lothíriel had never been able to capture her spirit, her talent for catching the breath of a legend in her thread.

"My lady," said the maid, "a visitor for you."

She glanced down at her embroidery hoop, slid the needle into the cloth, and set it aside. Amrothos was gone, as usual; he was normally out, though she didn't know what he was doing. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Me," said a voice.

"Erchirion!" She ran to fling herself at her brother, then remembering it was indecorous, stopped a foot away.

He laughed and grabbed her tightly, swinging her about the room as though she were a girl. His arms were strong and she wondered how she could have worried for him when he was so vibrant and whole. "Too old to hug me?" he teased.

"No!" she said. "But it's not proper."

"Hang propriety! Is there anyone here to see?"

"No," she said and smiled, taking a step back to survey him. He was mud-splattered and smelled of horse and sweat, but he was beaming. "Why-,"

"Father sent me. I'm only staying the night, and then I'm riding to Osgiliath. Let's not talk military matters, though. Where's our brother?"

"Out," she said, "I don't know where."

"Very well, then. I'm stared. Where's that maid of yours?"

She rang the bell; the maid curtsied and returned with ale and cakes. Erchirion wolfed one down; usually he had much better manners, but as he explained between mouthfuls, he hadn't eaten since that morning, and that was only journey bread. "Tell me," he said, "how do you find Minas Tirith?"

She wondered how much to tell him, but this was Erchirion, the most understanding of all her brothers, and his grey eyes invited her confidence. "Uncle Denethor," she began and felt as though he was watching her, somehow, "is- he frightens me."

"Yes," said Erchirion thoughtfully, "do you see him often?"

"Only a few times. He's summoned me maybe three times and he talks to me about our aunt."

"Something about him changed when Aunt Findulias died," said Erchirion.

"Do you remember her?"

"No, she died two years before I was born. Elphir was only one. But Father tells me that often."

"And yet Father sent us here!" she said. "I wonder at him. What will happen when Osgiliath falls?"

She wanted him to correct her, tell her _if _ Osgiliath fell, but he did not.

"Isn't Dol Amroth safer?" she asked.

"The Corsairs," he began.

She interrupted, "But there have not been any Corsair attacks yet, have there?"

He was a decent liar, but she saw his start.

She closed her eyes. "There have?"

"Very few," he said, "hardly more than usual. A few attacks on merchant ships. But I wish you would stay here."

Her eyes fell on her embroidery, the seagull and the rising blue-green waves. She tried to imagine watching the black ships on that sea, her beloved water bringing the danger to her home.

"I hate this city," she said and found a few tears trickling down her face. She swiped at them impatiently, but he set aside the wine flagon and held her very gently.

"Oh, shhh," he whispered, "cry, little sister."

She did, sobbing with wild abandon into his shoulder, wondering when she had abandoned her childhood delusions of safety.

* * *

><p>That night she dreamt again, this time of a strange shriveled creature who stared at her huge glassy eyes, but she would shrink away from him. Then she felt fire at her back; turning, she saw <em>It<em>, a monster shrouded in flames, heat pressing on her face, roaring, shrieking, and she fled, heart pounding and her mouth dry, running through dark winding caverns, ghostly hands reaching out for her, and she screamed, for she was lost somewhere in the deep belly of the earth, surrounded by flames and darkness and fear, never to escape.

And then she woke, gasping, and threw off the heavy blankets, wiping sweat off her forehead. The house felt very still. She flung a robe across her shoulders and belted the sash about her wait, then left her bedroom to pad through the halls. Maybe a tisane would help her sleep. The halls were still and dark, but rounding a corner she heard soft voices and saw a light glowing underneath a door.

_Amrothos_.

She recognized her brothers' voices, bare murmurs, and though she should not stoop to eavesdropping, she did anyway, stealing on bare silent feet to listen at the door.

"I will ride," Amrothos was saying.

"You know you cannot," said Erchirion. "Your leg will not hold."

"I care not! I will _not _be left behind if it comes to war-,"

"Peace, brother. Perhaps it will not. Our uncle does not wish to ride to war."

She heard Amrothos grunt.

"Have you told her?"

"Told who?"

"Lothíriel."

"Oh." A pause. "No."

"Why not?"

"Just as I have not told Elphir. They will not listen to me."

"I cannot speak for Elphir, but Lothíriel loves you very much," said Erchirion's voice very gently, "she will not-,"

"Be ashamed? Disgusted?" Amrothos's voice rose until it was almost maniacal and unconsciously Lothíriel stepped away from the door. She had never heard him speak so, as though he could not control himself. What can you not tell me, she wanted to scream to him. "She will. You know our sister."

"You judge her too harshly."

A shaky laugh. "No, I think not. I love her dearly, but she sees only what is seemly and proper. No, she would not understand, and you know that as well as I!"

"Not all of us are made the same," said Erchirion, "she must understand that. We are family, through thick and thin."

"Yes," said Amrothos, but she knew that voice- he did not believe Erchirion- all the same, I will not tell her."

"And so you will steal off in secret, hiding your true purpose, lying to her, lying to Father, to Elphir. If they love you, they will find a way to understand you."

"No." His voice was steady. "You will not breathe a word to any of them, Erchirion."

She stepped away, suddenly very cold. What could he not tell her? She searched her mind for some shameful secret that she might have stumbled upon, but she could find nothing. But her brother doubted her.

When she went back to sleep, she heard the horn of Gondor echoing through her mind, over and over again.

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><p>AN: Reviews? Please? Again, a huge thanks to those who submitted them already- you made my day!


	4. Secrets

Lothíriel, the princess of Dol Amroth, struggles to find courage in the dark days of the War of the Ring, aided by her brother, her old friend Éomer of Rohan, and her strange dreams. Though she is a mere footnote in history, her struggle will shift the course of the War.

A/N: I own nothing. I have changed the rating due to language in the next few chapters. Also, the views of my characters do no reflect my own.

Enjoy, and thanks to all of you who reviewed! I would love it if you were to take thirty seconds to tell me what you liked and/or disliked about this chapter, the writing style, and the characters.

Best!

* * *

><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-4-_

__January 3019_  
><em>

* * *

><p>"<em>You ask me of the Corsairs. They were once men of Númenór like I, but then Númenór fell and the Black Númenóreans rose to power, those who would not trust the Elves, and after the Kin-Strife in Gondor, they turned to darkness. They dwell in Umbar, south of Dol Amroth, and for as long as my family can remember they have preyed just beyond our shores on the merchant ships.<em>

_I often dream of their black ships, for when I was young they raided our lands and burned the villages. From the palace I could see the rising black smoke and knew what it was to fear. I went to my room but I could still hear the screaming and I could still smell the smoke._

_A princess of Dol Amroth should not fear, yet I am afraid of the Corsairs. If the time comes when they swarm our lands, I would run. I hope you do not judge me, for I would run and not look back. I would not stand by my home."_

-Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, to Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark

.

"For though all lore was in these latter days fallen from the fullness of old, the leechcraft of Gondor was still wise, and skilled in the healing of wound and hurt, and al such sickness as east of the Sea mortal men were subject to, save old age only." (_The Return of the King_, The Houses of Healing)

.

"Denethor is of another sort, proud and subtle, a man of far greater lineage and power, though he is not called king." (_The Two Towers_, Minas Tirith)

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><p>In the morning the sun was bright and she wondered if she had only dreamt her brothers' whispered conversation, for their faces were clear and unworried as they ate breakfast and Erchirion readied himself to leave, along with the ten Swan Knights he had brought with him. She watched her brother silently but saw no shadow of fear in his movements, no hesitation, no uncertainty.<p>

The horses brought, Erchirion turned to her and said, "Lothíriel, I would like you to meet Dánaron. He is to be your guard in Minas Tirith, and he is to go with you everywhere. Do you understand?"

"A guard?" she said. "Why do I need a guard?"

"This city is not safe anymore," he said, though one man could hardly protect her if that was so.

She looked at her new guard with some distaste. Of course they had guards at home, but only when she so chose, and never had one followed her everywhere. He was tall, perhaps forty years of age, dark-haired and dark-eyed with the weathered skin of a soldier, and his face was very serious, betraying absolutely no emotion.

"Everywhere?" she repeated. His face did not move though she spoke of him.

"Everywhere," confirmed Erchirion. "You would do well to obey us in that." He took the reins in hand and mounted easily; he was an excellent rider and the big gelding moved at the slightest touch of his hands.

"Is that a threat?" she asked.

"It could be. Give me a kiss, sister, and wish me well."

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "The Valar go with you, Erchirion. Be safe." Even if you are at times ridiculously overprotective, she thought.

"And you," he said, "watch yourself. I do not trust this city. Dánaron will keep you safe."

He and Amrothos clasped each other's forearms, and then Erchirion raised his hand and they were gone, picking their way through the streets. She watched them as they made their way to the Rammas Enchor until the waving silver swan had vanished to a speck on the plains and nothing was left of Erchirion and his men except a few faint black dots moving steadily across the fields.

"Well," said Amrothos, and abruptly he turned and left her, but not before she saw the shadow that swept across his face.

"Amrothos-," she called after him, but he did not answer.

Then she looked at Dánaron. "Well," she said.

He did not reply, either.

It was rather like addressing a stone wall. "I am going to the Houses of Healing. I would like you to stay here."

As though he were a statue, only his mouth moved. "I will go with you, Your Highness."

"No," she said firmly, "you will only be in the way. I will go alone. It is quite safe."

Again his mouth moved, though his eyes did not. "It is not seemly for a princess to walk unescorted."

Damn the man! She would have kicked him in frustration were it not so unseemly, and she wondered if she saw a twinkle of humor in his eyes. Surely not. Erchirion must have told him exactly what phrases to use as persuasion, for that was the only argument that could possibly have swayed her.

"Well," she said, "you will have to help me."

His face did not waver.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Well, then," she said. The city was slowly coming to life; in the early grey hours of the morning the bakers and butchers were beginning to hawk their wares, their voices carrying to the sixth level to form a kind of music. She found that she did not love Minas Tirith, but there was a strange sort of rhythm to it, as though it was a melody to be sung.

She wore plain grey, a gown befitting a merchant's daughter rather than a princess, and her hair was severely scraped away from her face. As they made their way to the sixth level, Dánaron at her side, they received only a few curious looks, but that for the sword that hung at his side and not for her status.

It would be a busy day at the Houses of Healing; already Mistress Ioreth, the shriveled, quick-tongued crone who ran the Houses was giving out orders, unhesitant to give a tongue lashing where she thought it due. In the weeks that Lothíriel had come to the Houses, she herself had been on the receiving end of a few and found them very unpleasant.

"And who," demanded Ioreth, "is this?"

"This is my guard Dánaron," she answered, "and-,"

Suddenly Dánaron bowed. "I will help Princess Lothíriel."

"Hmph," said Ioreth, her raised eyebrows making her thoughts all to clear. "If you get in anyone's way, lad, you'll be out before you can bow once more, do you understand."

He bowed briefly.

"I work in the kitchens," she explained to him. He did not react, and instead watched her while she swung one of the heavy iron kettles off the stove to pour water into a basin. It never failed to amaze her how many linens the Houses used daily, but in the kitchens the women had formed a sort of camaraderie, though of course Lothíriel did not offer stories or songs of her own, but it contented her to listen.

At first the women were wary of the stranger in their midst, just as they had been with Lothíriel, and shot Dánaron uneasy glances, but then they resumed their chatter, talking of their husbands and children and lovers, the price of bread and bacon, tricks to save cloth when sewing, antics of unruly toddlers. Some of the stories were lewd and Lothíriel felt a blush creep up her face; one of the women noticed and called out to her, laughing. For a moment she was embarrassed and furious, and then she too began to laugh a little.

"Don't worry yourself," said one woman kindly, "you're still a little thing yet."

"I'm already almost twenty," she protested.

"What!" said another, an older woman, plumper with red cheeks. "And not married yet? When I was your age I already had three babes!"

"And that was because you slept with all the neighbors when your husband was off," said a third.

"Not _all_," she replied.

Midday was quick and small; she sat in the gardens outside, concerned more with the open air than the food. Dánaron, of course, stood some distance away, but far enough that she could be alone. The weak sunlight gilded her face and she thought of the waves, of the seagulls.

Of the Corsairs.

The cheese turned to cold, greasy lead in her mouth and heavy in her stomach. She closed her eyes, remembering the letter she had written to Éomer some years ago of them, confessing the bone-chilling fear she felt when she saw their black ships on the horizon.

She should not be afraid, but she was.

Footsteps.

She opened her eyes. It was Kallista.

Her friend settled onto the bench beside her. "Hello. Lovely day, isn't it?"

"I suppose," she agreed. The silence stretched for a moment, and she said, "In Dol Amroth, the sun would be shining on the waves, and it would seem that the sea rises to meet the sky."

"The sea must be so huge!"

She looked in some surprise at Kallista. "You have never been?"

"No," she said, "I do not swim."

Impulsively Lothíriel grasped her hands. "Come visit me sometime. Bring your brother. I know Amrothos would like that very much."

"But Taregon has already been," said Kallista, "and though he would very much like to go, Amrothos does not think it appropriate."

"Already come?" she asked. "When? Why not?"

It seemed like Kallista flushed and she very quickly changed the subject. "I have a task for you."

"I thought I would be in the kitchens?" said Lothíriel. "Why-,"

"Yes, well, I thought you could use a rest. Your poor hands! You may always return to scrubbing if you wish."

Lothíriel looked at her hands and winced. She had always taken care to keep them soft and white, but the hot water and lye had reddened and chapped them until they were sore. Whenever she saw them she wondered exactly what the princess of Dol Amroth was doing scrubbing soiled linens like a common kitchen maid, but then she thought of the white-faced little boy waiting for his arm to be amputated.

"Come. Have you eaten your fill?"

"Yes," she said.

Kallista led her to a larger room and said, "These are the children whose mothers have died in childbirth."

Lothíriel looked inside. "Are there so many?"

"Oh, yes. Even with our leech craft, there are many mothers who are not strong enough to survive." A baby began to cry and Kallista leaned over the cradle.

"We are very short today- several of our women are fevered and I must help with an operation. You do not mind?"

"Of course not," she said. She had been taught to dance, to sew, to play the harp- surely she could care for a dozen babies, couldn't she?

Kallista left.

Then one of the babies began to cry. She went to him- he was a red-faced, wrinkled child, one of the ugliest she'd ever seen- and said, "Shhh, don't cry."

He began to wail even harder and very cautiously she picked him up, cradling him to her shoulder like she'd seen the nurse do with her nephew Alphros. "Shhh," she said, but he would not stop wailing.

Very gently she patted his back and then he shuddered. She felt sudden wetness on her shoulder.

He had spit on her!

"_Oh_," she said in carefully controlled dismay, smothering the squeak that came to her throat. "Oh-,"

Large but gentle hands took the baby from her; Dánaron's mouth was carefully neutral but his eyes laughed. "He burped, Your Highness."

She wiped at her shoulder. "Oh." So surprised at seeing her stone-faced guard move, she couldn't managed to say anything else.

He began to rock the baby and gradually the boy began to quiet, from wails to sobs, sobs to hiccoughs, and then into restful silence. Then the man laid him back down to sleep. He offered her a very small smile. "I've two of my own, Your Highness."

"Oh," she said again.

She fed the ones who woke warm goat's milk, spilling half of it across her apron until Dánaron again helped her steady the babies' heads. "Put a cloth on your shoulder first," he advised her.

They lapsed into silence and she thought that sleeping, their faces were smooth and innocent. Cling to this moment, she wanted to tell them, for she had an idea that the life of a motherless child would be harsh. Stillness descended on the room, blissful quiet.

"Do you like stories?" Still Dánaron's face was smooth.

"Well," she said carefully, "I suppose so."

"Your parents did not tell you stories?"

"My mother did. But she died when I was twelve."

He did not apologize, for which she was grateful. Apologies were awkward and frustrating. "Then I will tell you the story of Itarildë Celebrindal, who was the princess of Gondolin and the leader of the exiles at the Mouths of Sirion."

And he did.

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><p>The maid plaited her hair into dozen of braids and wound them into an intricate knot, then brushed powder across her face. Lothíriel's face in the mirror was unmoving and she stared into her reflection's dark grey eyes. They were not Elphir's silver or her father's blue, but a plain, cloudy grey, and she had never really liked them. The yellow light cast shadows across high cheekbones and the fine lines of her jaw; a serious face. Poised perhaps, but the hints of childhood-though she was nearly twenty- lingered about the mouth. It seemed she could never escape her childhood.<p>

Holding her hands to the light of the tapers, she winced, for despite the lotions she had rubbed into her skin, her hands were still red, cracked, and chapped. She drew on her gloves and hoped no one would notice.

"My lady," said the maid, holding out a milky string of pearls. "Will you wear them?"

She looked at them with some consideration. They were, after all, hers; Imrahil had given them to her when she turned eighteen, for they had been her mother's. She took them, rolling the pearls between her gloved fingers, and then let them hang along the line of her collarbone. For a moment she looked like a young lady with her shoulders bared, her neckline scooping down her chest, her eyes very grave, and then she said, "No."

She looked like a young child playing dress up. She could not wear her mother's jewels. Or would not. She thought of her mother's pendant, the delicately shaped silver swan with the tiny, glittering diamond eye that had always hung around her neck, the necklace that had been her father's betrothal gift to her mother.

"Here," Imrahil had said, his face tight with grief, "she would want you to have it." He had turned away so she would not see his grief, but the pendant was heavy in her hand and her breath came fast and hard. She did not want it. Her mother had left her. She had left. Deserted them. Betrayed them.

"No," she said again, looking at the string of pearls. "Put them away."

Amrothos awaited her by the door; he wore dark blue and silver that set off his dark hair and swarthy skin. When he saw her, he smiled perfunctorily but she saw that his mind was elsewhere.

"You look lovely," he said. His voice was dead.

"Thank you," she replied, just as stiffly as he.

He held open the door.

"Ro," she said, the childish nickname she hadn't used for years, "won't you tell me what's wrong?"

He looked away. "You wouldn't understand."

"Please?"

"Take your cloak," he said, "it's cold."

They were silent but for their footsteps and their guards' behind them; the mist swirled about the pavement and shrouded the Citadel. Rising above the fog stood the Tower of Ecthelion, glowing eerily in the night.

The hall was wide and full of people, from minor nobles to the Steward himself. In the bright light Denethor's face seemed strangely drawn, as though he was folding in on himself, just as a burning scrap of paper crumpled about itself. As a prince, Amrothos was placed close to his uncle, and Lothíriel too sat merely five seats away from him, next to one of the elderly lords Amrothos liked to call "windbags," but in truth she rather liked the Lord of Dale Arnen.

"Tell me of your crop this year," she said, and he did so in minute detail and then spoke of the grain market and the trade routes. Lothíriel was a poor conversationalist and found herself at a loss when it came to young men, but the Lord of Dale Arnen seemed pleased with her opinions as to the harvest and coming rains. It was a remarkably pleasant dinner, or at least it would have been were it not for Amrothos, who seemed particularly pensive that evening. Whenever she glanced across the long tables at him, seated on Denethor's right, he seemed more engaged in tracing intricate patterns into his plate than his dinner companions.

In the years before, Lothíriel had never been parted from her family on state occasions, and when the dancing began her brothers ensured that she never had to sit out even one, and she suspected their friends were often made to do the same. But tonight Amrothos was too deeply sunk into his own thoughts to care for her, and so she danced the first set with the Lord of Dale Arnen (who wheezed through it all and stepped on her feet). She was about to make her way to speak to her brother when a young lady waylaid her, and for a moment she did not even recognize her friend.

"Kallista!" she exclaimed. "You look-,"

"Yes?" asked her friend.

"Lovely," she said with a real smile, for she rarely saw the lady of Mandolin dressed in anything but the drab greys and browns she wore to the Houses of Healing.

Kallista giggled a little bit. Her face shone, even underneath the faint dusting of powder she wore, and her curls had been arranged to drape across her bare shoulders, and her orange gown brought out her hazel eyes. "Thank you. I saw you were forced to sit through dinner with the Lord of Dale Arnen."

"Oh, truly, he isn't terrible," she protested, "I rather like him. He's very interesting."

"If you say so," said Kallista doubtfully, "though all he ever talks of is the average rainfall and iron output in Gondor."

"Yes," she said, "exactly."

Kallista raised her eyebrows, and Lothíriel turned to search for her brother.

"Where is Amrothos?" she asked. "I just saw him there!"

"Amrothos?" said Kallista. "I don't see him. Let me introduce you to-,"

The reply had come too quickly and Lothíriel reached out to grasp her friend's arm. Kallista's face was turned away and she was examining her hem as though it was suddenly the most intriguing piece of stitching she had ever seen.

So Kallista knew, this girl that Lothíriel had only just met. Who was she to Amrothos? How _dare _he tell Kallista a secret that he would even tell his own sister!

"I am," said Lothíriel with sudden venom, "so _frustrated _with this secret of his! You will tell me now what is the matter with him."

"Lothíriel," Kallista began, "it isn't my place to tell you-,"

Lothíriel might have struck the other girl and she had actually clenched a fist when she felt coldness trickle down her spine and she turned to where her uncle stood, silhouetted by the candlelight.

"Oh, dear," said Kallista, "he doesn't look well-,"

And then Denethor began to laugh, the laughter of a desperate, crazed man, and then he bellowed, "Get out!"

No one moved.

Then, louder, he screamed, "Get out! Warmongers and thieves and beggars and plotters- get out of my house!"

Well.

Then a hand took her elbow and as coolly as though asking for a dance, Dánaron appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and offered his other arm to Kallista. "My lady? I believe dinner has ended."

"I believe it has," she heard herself saying, and when she glanced over her shoulder she saw her uncle sweeping out of the hall, his cloak like great black wings flaring behind him.

Outside was the closest to pandemonium a group of well-bred ladies and gentlemen could get, but Dánaron guided them to the edge of the crowd. Lothíriel stepped out of the way of a particularly round lady who seemed to be hysterical. The air was cool, damp, and cold, the mist hovering above them like an eerie canopy. The candlelight of the hall glowed hazily in the fog.

"How terrible," Kallista said, her eyes round in sympathy, "the poor man."

Footsteps: Amrothos and Taregon. Her brother's dark hair was in disarray.

"What happened?"

"The Steward threw us out," said Kallista, "poor man looked awful."

"Where were you?" asked Lothíriel. "You couldn't have missed it!"

"Outside," Amrothos said curtly. He would not meet her eyes. "Well, let's go, then. At least it's over."

"Princess." Taregon offered her a brief bow.

Amrothos led her away, his grip on her arm harder than necessary, and she shook him off. She was very rarely angry and even more rarely truly livid, but suddenly she could feel the rage boiling in her veins and she demanded heatedly, "_What _is the matter with you?"

"Not here," he said, "not here, Lothíriel."

She kept her voice low, deadly, and quiet. "No. You have avoided the subject for far too long."

"Lothíriel," he said, looking around at the crowd of people, lords and ladies and barons and duchesses and earls, knights and squires and maids, "wait until we get home."

"No." She did something very unseemly. She sat down on the damp ground with the grace of a newborn colt and said, "I am not moving until you tell me."

"No," he said. "Listen to me, Thiri." He knelt down beside her, taking her hands. "It has nothing to do with you. You will _always _be my baby sister, d'you hear me? You just- you just wouldn't understand."

"Of course I would."

"No," he said, "no, I don't think you would."

"I want you to tell me. Now. Please."

They had garnered a few curious glances, but the Steward's behavior was far more intriguing than that of the Dol Amroth siblings.

"All right," he said, "all right." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Do you remember," he asked her, "old Orodreth?"

"Of course I do," she said, "what about him?"

"You know he never married."

"Yes," she said, and then she understood with sudden, blinding certainty. "_Oh_." She was very dizzy and swayed a little when she stood up, but she would not touch him, would not let him take her hand.

"Dánaron," she called imperiously, "take me home now."

Amrothos remained crouched on the ground, hunched about himself as though in physical pain. "Thiri," he called after her, "Thiri-,"

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><p>Reviews=kudos points. Any predictions?<p> 


	5. On Love of All Kinds

Disclaimer: The work of J.R.R. Tolkien does not belong to me. I am merely wreaking uncoordinated havoc in his universe for my own enjoyment. I wish I could get paid.

Translation: I own nothing.

Please understand that the thoughts of my characters do not reflect my own.

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><p><em>Nostos<em>

-5-

_January 3019_

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><p><em>You asked me why I do not write to you of our battles. I would not say that I relish killing, though the Orcs we hunt deserve no less, but being a captain and a Rider of Rohan is no trial to me. Still I would set our letters away from that life."<em>

-Eomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, to Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth

.

"Here do I swear fealty and service... to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end." (_The Return of the King_, Minas Tirith)

.

"I loved [my brother] dearly, and... I knew him well." (_The Two Towers_, The Window on the West)

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><p>The boy told him to take the letter to the princess and so he took it and went to find her. He didn't know exactly where Princess Lothíriel would be, except that she was upset with her brother and had yet to leave the house. Methodically he searched the house, beginning with the top floor, knocking on all the doors and discovering nothing but a very drunk footman. An icy basin of water solved that problem, but still he did not find the princess.<p>

She was in the garden, of course, though it barely deserved to be called such, so small was it, just a bench and some roses and a tall, broad tree whose branches reached from the fence to the roof. In the spring its leaves would shade the entire house but they were still lost in January's chill and the branches were bare.

His charge was sitting very quietly on a bench, her gaze distant, and he cleared his throat. She didn't stir.

The Princess Lothíriel, for all that she was nineteen, was both wise beyond her years and very childlike, so he considered how best to approach her. Sometimes she reminded him very much of the daughter he would have liked to have had, because for all her pride and gravity she was just a little girl inside, one very frightened of the world.

"Princess," he said softly, "Your Highness."

Abruptly her face slid into aloofness, as though she had slammed the doors tightly closed across any emotions that threatened to appear. "Dánaron. What is it?"

He clasped the letter behind his back. _Wait_. "My lady, are you well?"

For a moment she stared at him and he wondered if she would snap. Then she sighed a little bit. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course, Highness."

He watched the emotions that ghosted across her face and then she said, "The smith at Dol Amroth was- a very nice man. I liked him very much."

He nodded to show that he was still listening, though he was no expert on smiths.

"His name was Orodreth, and sometimes he would let us watch while he forged the swords or made nails or shoes. Sometimes he would give us candy, too." She stopped. "But he never married, and it wasn't until I was older that I realized why." She had turned away from him, tracing patterns into the wood of the bench. "And that was because he lived with another man, who wasn't just his friend." More sharply, she asked, "Do you understand?"

He ducked his head to hide a grin. "Yes, my lady. I understand. What is your question?"

"Is that wrong of Am- of Orodreth?"

"I am, of course," he began slowly, "just a soldier, Princess." Eyeing her back, he thought she wanted her father. He had heard of the Prince's legendary wisdom and wondered what he would say now to his daughter. "And of course I suppose that many people did not agree with your Master Orodreth."

"No," she agreed, "no, they did not."

"But," he said, "you loved your brother very much two days ago. Why should- this- change anything?"

"We were not speaking of Amrothos!"

"Forgive me. I meant Master Orodreth."

Still she did not seem angry. "I do not think it is right. I could not imagine-,"

"Of course you cannot, my lady," he said, "but you are not- Master Orodreth. I imagine he still cares for you very much."

"Yes," she said, "yes, he does. I know he does." She began to walk restlessly, trailing her fingers along the bare rose bushes. "Ouch!" The princess put a bleeding finger in her mouth and then said, "I should have understood it before. _I should have seen it_. Why he never really liked any girl. Why he was always gone." She shook her head very firmly. "What you say has… some reason. But I still do not think that-," she stopped. "Thank you," she said more firmly. "Thank you, Dánaron. You may go."

"My lady," he said, "a letter for you."

She whirled very suddenly and snatched it from him, her face smoothing out as if that letter held the answers to all her puzzles, but her voice was neutral. "Thank you," she said again.

He bowed and withdrew, wondering what about that letter was so important.

* * *

><p><em>Lothíriel,<em>

_This is to be a short letter, since we ride again very soon. You know me well enough to know I do not believe in dreams, but since you write of one- I will do my best. I do not think it is your imagination; you are far too level-headed for that, nor do I think you drank too much ale. Or perhaps you did. Your brothers seem to be a curious influence, but perhaps men of Gondor are much stupider than the Rohirrim, or at least have not the head for drink._

_As to your cousin, we know nothing more than you. I believe I wrote to you that we lent him a horse, but it has been many months and still we hear nothing of him. But Boromir of Gondor is the greatest captain of his people I have seen, more of Rohan than of Gondor, though now is a time of uncertain prospects._

_I would tell you to trust what you know, not what anyone would tell you think or say or do, for you have always been a strong person of good convictions, if perhaps slow to act. Your dreams could be prophetic, and if so, you would do well to heed them._

_I would promise that I will write more when we return, but I feel that very storm coming upon us and know that nothing is certain. May the Valar guide your steps-_

_E._

* * *

><p>In the kitchens she had the time to ponder the letter he had sent her, tucked safely away in her box in her room, the box she used to keep all his letters. She had read it four times, nearly enough to have memorized it, disappointed with its brevity, but of course he had the duties of the East-mark to attend to. The Third Marshal of Rohan could not waste time writing letters to young girls in Gondor when he was needed.<p>

He wrote very little to her of his duties; he had explained once, briefly, that while he found being a warrior no hardship, he found their letters an escape from that life. For Éomer, that was a high compliment indeed, for he rarely disclosed his feelings. And rightly so, she thought, wondering if Denethor had read the letter, if he had puzzled over the lines. Wondered what her dream was. Read of his son. Laughed at her silly platitudes and fears. No, she did not blame Éomer, for she felt as though her one sanctuary had been violated.

"Lothíriel." It was Kallista.

"Hello," she said, but she concentrated on the heavy kettle she was lifting off the stove.

"I wanted to-,"

She glanced over her shoulder at Kallista and her sweaty fingers lost their grip on the kettle. Boiling hot water splashed all across the floor and she yelped in startled pain as it spilled across her thin slippers.

Immediately the women flocked around her, soaking up the spreading puddle and tugging her away. Kallista's hand on her arm was tight.

"Lothíriel! Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm _fine_," she said.

The woman who ran the kitchens, Mistress Avaris, regarded her with sharp, beady eyes. She reminded Lothíriel of a seagull. "Child, go walk somewhere. Take a rest."

"Yes, Mistress," she said obediently, and Kallista gently led her from the kitchen.

"Are you mad at me?" the other girl demanded, and barely pausing for breath, "because I wanted to tell you, truly, but I thought you knew, but then you started asking me if we were courting and I thought maybe you were joking and then I asked Taregon and he said no, you didn't know, but I-,"

"Kallista," she said. "I can't understand you." She felt strangely reassured by Dánaron's light footfalls behind them.

The girl took a deep breath. "I'm so very sorry."

She wanted to be furious, to scream and rage at Kallista, but found that she couldn't ignore the true apology in the other girl's eyes. She looked away but said, "I know."

She heard a relieved breath. "_Good_. I was so worried you wouldn't ever talk to me again, and I didn't want that to happen!"

"No," she said, "it wouldn't."

"Perfect! Then I have something to show you. Come with me." Kallista gave her no choice in the matter and very firmly began to tow Lothíriel through the city until they reached the markets. She had never seen so many people at once, not even at her uncle's formal feasts or at the markets in Dol Amroth: vendors hawked their wares to passers-by, selling everything from fresh bread to garlic to hair brushes to puppies to freshly killed rabbits. She smelled meat and yeast and dust and sweat in an exhilarating blend; frightening, but exciting all the same!

Kallista showed her a man who sold little trinkets, silver hair pins and ribbons and cheap bracelets; a bookseller whose volumes included storybooks and histories, all of them battered but in good condition; a butcher brandishing his bloody knife at each of the dripping carcasses. It was _huge_ and crowded; they had to push their way through the crowds and she felt oddly vulnerable as she never had before. The stalls wound through the main streets and alleys, showcasing lavender soaps and onion braids and shoe polish, the venders old men to young mothers who gathered their children about them. But the crowd was forcing them apart and she felt Kallista's hand slide from her wrist, and then her friend was calling for her: "Lothíriel! Lothíriel!" but she couldn't spot her and where was Dánaron? A child pushed her aside and she stumbled; then a hard hand caught her arm and she said, "Dánaron!"

But it wasn't; a man with a red nose and breath that smelled of ale (already? it was barely evening!) hauled her to her feet and she did not like his eyes at all, but she was a princess of Dol Amroth, so surely no tavern drunk would _dare _lay a hand on her. But as his eyes wandered across her chest she realized her dress was soiled and wet from the Houses, her hair hanging down her back.

"Don't-," she began, but he had already tugged her towards the edge of the crowd, to the alley.

He tasted sour and she kicked at him. Hard. In response his hand on her forearm tightened and he pressed his hips into hers, pushing her into the brick wall.

She would have kicked him again, but there was no need, for a much more welcome someone wrenched the drunk off of her and flung him away. Coughing, wiping away the taste of his mouth on hers with her hand, she stumbled but righted herself. Dánaron had the man on the ground, his foot planted very firmly on his back.

"My lady?"

"I am- fine," she said. "I think."

"Shall I have him arrested?"

"Whore!" the man said, though his voice was blurred. "Bitch!"

She did not see her guard move, but then the man howled in sudden pain.

"Shut your mouth," said Dánaron very coldly. "Princess?"

"No. No, I don't think so. Let him go." She took a breath calm herself and saw how pathetic he was, slobbering into the dirt, his eyes unsteady and his nose reddened.

The man howled in pain again and then Dánaron let him up, though still the drunkard did not move.

"Let's go," she said. "He meant no harm." She wanted to retch, could still taste his mouth on hers, his hips pressing her backwards as if she were some common whore.

"No, my lady," Dánaron agreed, "unfortunately, this world is full of fools."

"So it seems." She tried to calm her trembling voice and her back prickled, wondering if he would follow her, but Dánaron walked behind her and he would keep her safe.

The venders had turned their eyes away from the moment the drunkard had dragged her away and when Lothíriel turned to glare at them fiercely they would not meet her eyes. So! They would feign blindness, would they, when they saw injustice? Or, she thought, perhaps they do not know what to do. Perhaps they are just as frightened as I.

"Lothíriel! Lothíriel?" It was Kallista. "Valar be praised, are you all right?"

"Yes," she said curtly. "I'm fine, but I want to go home."

Perhaps Kallista understood more than she let on. "Yes, of course. You've had quite a day, haven't you?"

Pity she could not tell Éomer; he would have some words of comfort.

She went to her brother that evening once she had washed away all traces of the drunk's mouth and hands on her. He had not come to dinner, nor had she expected him, too. She knocked on his door and when he opened it, raw pain in his eyes, she stepped back a little. His eyes were dark and guarded, his shoulders stiff as he opened the door. He did not move to let her in.

"May I come in?" she asked.

There was strange distance between them and she reached out her hands to him as though to bridge that gap, but she could not. He recoiled as if she had stabbed him.

"Ro," she said. "Amrothos."

"What do you want?" he asked, turning away from her, and she read the anger, the pain, in the taut lines of his back. His limp was more pronounced, perhaps because of the damp.

"I," she said, "I love you. Very much."

He did not move.

"But I cannot understand you."

"No," he said, very softly at first, and then louder. "No, of course you can't!" He turned on her suddenly. "Is it too much to ask that you keep your judgment to yourself? Am I some sort of twisted animal because I am not like the others? You would judge me! You would _pity _me! I have never wanted pity and yet that is all I seem to get, from you, from Father, from Elphir and Erchirion. I do not want pity!"

"You would not let me finish!" she interrupted. "I cannot understand you. I am-," she paused. Repulsed was too strong a word. Betrayed, perhaps. It felt wrong. Yet looking into her brother's eyes she saw the same boy who had put frogs in her bed, taught her to swim, let her win the races they had run. She did not understand him. She did not want to understand. But perhaps understanding was not necessary. "But I think I love you all the same."

They were not the right words, but neither were they wrong. His face remained cold.

"Please," she said, "don't be angry with me."

Slowly he nodded, though his face remained twisted in pain. "Sister," he said unsteadily, "I did not wish you to think any less of me."

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><p>AN: Thoughts? Please review!


	6. The Madness

A/N: The story begins to pick up here! Thanks to all who reviewed- you guys make my day! Please let me know what you think of this chapter, if you liked it or disliked it and why, what I could do to improve it.

I don't own anything; I am merely playing around in Tolkien's world.

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><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-6-_

_February 3019_

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><p><em>"<em>Your land must be a realm of peace and content, and there must gardeners be in high honor._" _(_The Two Towers, _The Window of the West)

.

_"_Great harm is this death to Minas Tirith, and to us all. That was a worthy man! All spoke his praise. He came seldom to the Mark, for he was ever in the wars on the East-borders; but I have seen him. More like to the swift sons of Eorl than to the grave Men of Gondor he seemed to me, and likely to prove a great captain of his people when his time came._" (_The Two Towers_, _The Riders of Rohan)

.

"Courage is found in unlikely places." (_The Fellowship of the Ring_, Three is Company).

.

_"You tell me that you are weak. I would say that you are stronger than you could ever imagine..__."_

-Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark to Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth

* * *

><p>When she went to leave that morning for the Houses of Healing, another guard made to follow her and she stopped. "Where is Dánaron?"<p>

"He is ill, my lady. Recovering. But I am to escort you-,"

Brusquely she said, "No. Bring me to him."

"My lady," he began.

"I said, I wish to see my guard."

He bowed.

The guards were housed in the back, and she followed the guard up the stairs and down a narrow hallway. The man knocked and then allowed her to pass. She felt vaguely discomfited, for the room was close and stuffy.

"Princess," said Dánaron. He did not rise from where he laid, propped against the bed. Across the room was another empty bed. If he was surprised to see her, he said nothing, nor did his face betray any emotion.

"I did not mean to intrude," she said. The room was sparsely furnished, but she drew up a stool and settled on it as though it were a throne, clasping her hands in her lap. "Are you ailed?"

"I taxed myself," he said.

"Oh?"

"My back," he said. "I did not intend to distress you, Highness." A quick flash of a smile, gone just as swiftly. "That- drunk- was stronger than I believed. I am sorry I could not accompany you today."

She felt rather foolish, but said, "I thought I might have offended you."

"Nothing of the sort," he said, "I will be better by tomorrow." She perceived a bit of warmth in his eyes, though.

"Forgive me if I am rude, but why did my brother send you to guard me if you are not well? That is, I am sure you are a very good guard, but surely injured…"

"It was a fall from a horse," he said. "Your brother is a good man, my lady princess. I am sure he did not realize the danger you would be in."

"What are you, then? A nursemaid?"

"I think not." Looking closer, she saw that his face was drawn in pain, that it was a map of faint lines that sketched out a life of pain and sadness.

"Then what are you?"

"Very sad," he said. "And very tired. I am no longer young, Princess."

"Are you feeling quite all right?" she blurted out. "I didn't mean- what I meant was, you needn't explain if you don't wish."

"Thank you, Princess," he said, "but I do wish. Do you know, I taught the prince Erchirion to wield a sword?"

She shook her head silently.

"Once a fall could not have knocked me off my feet," he said, "but this one did, and I will never ride off to fight Orcs again. But your brother would not have me dismissed."

Lothíriel was not a kind person, but she understood dignity, clinging to propriety when it was all she had left, and she recognized a kindred spirit. "Now you are being ridiculous. If you think Erchirion sent you here as a pretense, you clearly do not know me."

"No," he said somewhat ruefully, "the prince told me you should be little trouble. Obviously he is not well acquainted with you."

"I am no trouble at all! I could have dealt with that drunkard myself," she said.

"Of course," he said. He looked very tired.

"Lay down," she ordered, "and I will tell you a story."

"You do not know any stories."

"I know one," she said, "the story of Helm Hammerhand."

"Helm Hammerhand?"

She smirked and folded her hands in her lap. "A very good friend told it to me once."

"Very well, then." He very gently eased himself back into bed and she cast about for words.

"In the Third Age, the year two -,"

"No, no, Princess," said Dánaron, "this is no history. It is a story."

"Then I cannot begin," she said.

"Once upon a time," he suggested.

"Once upon a time," she said, "there was a king named Helm Hammerhand. He was the king of all the Mark…"

Haltingly she told him of Freca, the lord who wished his power to rival that of the king himself, of the marriage he attempted to force the king to agree to between Freca's son and Helm's daughter, but the king smote his enemy with a single blow of his fist. Éomer had written her of the story and his words gave it color she had never found in the histories she had read; she could almost hear him telling it, his voice instead of hers, arching with the tale, dropping as Helm declared Wulf, son of Freca, an enemy of Rohan. "When they found the king's body at last," she said, "his eyes were open, readied for battle, and the Rohirrim say that his ghost still wanders the land, waiting to vanquish its foes."

There was silence.

"You tell it well, Princess."

"Do I?" she asked, pleased. "I did not do half bad, then!"

He smiled very briefly. "You must go, Princess, or else Mistress Ioreth will have your head."

"I know." She rose, brushing off her skirts. "I will expect you to recover soon."

Ioreth was indeed livid and Lothíriel had to endure a complete lecture as she had never received before, for the mistress of the healers was sharp-tongued and verbose, liable to talk for hours if she were not stopped. Lothíriel folded her hands meekly in her apron and listened.

"Short-handed as it is!" added the old lady, glaring. "Princess you might be, but we need every hand! If you say you will come, you will _come_."

"Yes, Mistress Ioreth," she said.

"Good. Come with me. I need your help."

"Mine?"

"Yes. There is no one else, though I would rather more experienced hands than yours. I hope you will not vomit, for that would be a sore trial for our patient. Your friend the lady Kallista at least is a good healer, for all that she is young. _She _has never missed a day. You can sew tolerably well, can you not?"

"Very well," she said peevishly.

"Cloth, perhaps."

"You want me to stitch a wound?"

"It is quite simple. Even you could manage it. Don't fret, dear, it isn't very difficult, as long as you keep your wits about you."

The room was well-lit and warm; the man who laid on the bed looked at them warily, his face pained.

"I have given him some drink to quiet him," said Ioreth, and Lothíriel saw the large gash that ran up his hand. "A simple cut, no tendons or muscles. I will be by to check on you soon." And just like that, she was gone, leaving Lothíriel standing speechless.

Of course she had had some practice; one of the older healers had taken a day teaching her to stitch wounds, even the most complicated ones, to disinfect cuts, how to apply bandages, and taken her through another amputation, though Lothíriel had promptly been sick into a spare bed linen out in the garden where no one could see her. But now she stood over the bed alone, needle threaded.

She cleared her throat. His eyes were hazy, when she first slid the needle through skin he jerked from her.

"Stay where you are," she said firmly and rested her weight across his body. He closed his eyes, nodded, and murmured something incomprehensible. It was a long, torturous process for them both; he shuddered in pain with each jab of the needle, and her fingers became sweaty and she struggled to keep her grip. She flinched with every stroke, feeling his arm quiver underneath her needle, for this was not cloth but living flesh that she was sewing, and she had never been more relieved to tie a knot in her thread. When she stepped away from him, he let out a long, ragged breath and said, "'S it over yet?"

"Yes," she said, and then, steadying her voice, "yes, it's over."

He did not thank her, but she did not expect thanks.

* * *

><p>She had come to hate working in the Houses of Healing. She hated washing the dirtied linens; soiled with human waste and blood and pus; she hated emptying and cleaning the reeking bedpans. Sponging the filth off the patients made her want to be sick, and every quiver of the flesh as she stitched a wound made her stomach roll. Her days grew long and miserable, and she was jealous of Kallista's effortless cheer and patience. The other girl loved bandaging wounds, holding out knives for the healers, changing dirtied sheets, helping to wash a particularly filth-encrusted street urchin.<p>

Lothíriel did not, and so when she saw the sky turning dark she gratefully hung up her apron to leave.

"Lothíriel." It was one of the healers, Mistress Ivorel, a tall, patient woman who spoke little and never to Lothíriel. "Come with me."

The man who lay on the bed looked strangely familiar, but it was not until she looked more closely that she recognized him.

The drunk who had dared to touch her at the market. She tasted bile and said, "What do you want of me? I am to return home."

Mistress Ivorel was very gently cleaning his foot and when Lothíriel glanced at it, she wanted to be sick. It was crushed: bloody and mangled. No healer could make it right. It would have to be amputated, else infection would set it. His face was drawn in pain and he cried out something unintelligible even at Mistress Ivorwel's slight touch. She was one of the gentlest healers in the Houses, and whenever Lothíriel saw her, the woman's face was always set in quiet compassion for her patients.

"There are few healers remaining," said Mistress Ivorel. She nodded to the flask she had brought with her and Lothíriel recognized it as part wine, part poppy extract. She uncorked the flask and held it to the man's lips. He drank greedily. "You will need to help me."

"Help? I can't-,"

"You will, Princess," said Ivorel very quietly but very sternly. She held the thick blade to the candle flame to cleanse it and Lothíriel felt her stomach roll in anticipation. "Hold him."

He was filthy and she could still feel his hands roaming about her waist and chest. "No. I can't."

"_Now_."

Very gingerly she put her hands on his chest to steady him.

"Harder," said Ivorel.

She leaned against him, her arms on the filthy fabric of his shirt, hating his ragged breaths even in semi-unconsciousness. The poppy was taking hold of him, slowly but steadily, but he jerked slightly when Ivorel began to cut. She could hear the knife as it sliced through skin and then grinding as it hit bone; Ivorel did not flinch and continued to cut, slowly and methodically. The poppy was numbing the man; she turned her head away from Ivorel and the red-gleaming blade and saw his face. It was at peace, only a hint of pain about the mouth, and she saw that it was an old face, reddened and coarse by drink. His hands twitched. She kept her eyes fastened on his face and wondered what he had seen in her, why he had seized her arm and dragged her away. Did he find her pretty? Or did he think her a common prostitute? Perhaps he had not thought at all. Perhaps he had merely been drunk.

The tang of blood lay heavy in the air, assaulting her senses. She could smell coppery blood and sweat and ale, smoke from the candle and faint stench of human waste. On her own skin she could smell the tiniest hint of lavender, the soap she liked to use.

"Bandages," said Ivorel, "quickly, now."

She groped for them, lying on the table, and then she saw the stump of his leg.

* * *

><p>"I fainted," she said, pushing away her water goblet, and raised her hand to the maid. "Wine."<p>

Amrothos raised his eyebrows. The distance between them was stilted and so thick as to be almost tangible, but he still asked, "What happened?"

"Another amputation. A horse stepped on his foot and it was infected."

Her brother grimaced and indicated the platter of stewed meat. "Beef?"

"_No_." She felt a little sick at the thought. "Mistress Ioreth was furious."

She had woken to the old lady's temper; the healer had accused her of being nothing but a spoiled princess, good for nothing but sewing and dancing. Something had taken hold of her tongue and she had answered that she liked to dance and sew, thank you very much. Mistress Ivorel had appeared then, her face more sympathetic, and she had laid a cool hand against Lothíriel's cheek and told her to go home.

"Being a healer requires a certain stomach."

"I'm better in the kitchens. But I don't like it at all." She took a sip of her wine and thought she should drink more often. It was a nice feeling. "I don't think I want to go back."

He nodded. "All right. You needn't." His face was clearer now, but he still turned away from her.

"How is Lord Taregon?" she asked tentatively.

"He is well." A pause. His jaw twitched. "Perhaps you and Kallista would care to come riding with us sometime. Or to dine."

She thought of that, sitting across the table from her brother's lover, looking him in the eye. "Perhaps. I am not sure that I could. Yet."

"I know it is strange," said Amrothos very quietly, "but surely, in the face of what rises in the East, we must find love were we can, even in the strangest of places." His eyes pled with her when he asked, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said, just as softly. "I think I do."

* * *

><p>Kallista came to call on her the next morning, her face wreathed in hesitancy. Lothíriel received her in the sitting room as though they were two young ladies who liked to gossip and sew and go to balls together, yet Kallista wore the same drab colors she wore every day to the Houses of Healing.<p>

"I heard what happened," said Kallista quietly. "I am sorry."

"Yes. So am I." She focused on her stitches, the intricate white lines feathering through the waves. Here they hovered for just a moment before they broke. "I sent a message to say I would not return."

"We are grateful for your help."

"I learned much."

"Well," Kallista said awkwardly, "I suppose I shall go, then. I just came to apologize. And say I shall miss you."

Lothíriel suddenly felt very lonely, watching Kallista rise and turn away from her, but then the other woman glanced back. "They wished to test your mettle."

"What?"

"It is what they do to all the new healers," she explained. "They did it to me. To see if you are strong enough."

"Well, I guess I am not."

"You are a Princess. They expected very little of you. You did not mind washing the linens or stitching wounds or caring for the children."

"But I did," she said, "I hated every moment of it."

"Why did you do it, then?"

"Because," she searched very slowly for the words, "I thought I might find purpose there. I see the world around me- my father, my brothers- they ride to defend our country, yet I can do nothing. I would not live a life of uselessness."

"There are other-,"

"I won't go back."

"Very well." Then Kallista came and very gently folded Lothíriel into her arms, awkwardly, pulling her head to her shoulder, for Lothiriel was still seated, and after a moment she let herself be embraced. "I hope we will still be friends." Then she was gone, silent in her plain wool skirts, disappearing as if a mere spirit.

"You know," she said to the ever-present shadow at her shoulder, "I think she's the first friend I've ever had. Well, the first real one."

"You have had imaginary friends, then, my lady?"

She thought of Éomer, the best friend she could have asked for, but still not a friend. "In a way."

"There is more than one kind of purpose," he said.

"But I can't find mine. Or my courage."

He did not answer.

"If I were truly brave, I would go back to the Houses and grit my teeth and do it. But I won't do it. It makes me sick to see the blood."

"Then find another purpose."

"Where should I look?"

He proffered his arm and she took it. She could see the pain in his tightly drawn face and ached for him, but she understood pride and said nothing.

Outside she said, "May we sit? I feel dizzy," and patted the bench. Of course he saw through her, but it was a game they both understood and accepted. "Why are we here?"

"Your mother liked her garden very much," said Dánaron very mildly. "Often we would see her working through the day."

"She cared for the herbs," said Lothíriel, "for the healers-,"

He smiled briefly.

"But I don't know the first thing about herbs. Or plants."

"Come summer," he said, "I will teach you."

"You are a herbalist as well as as a soldier?" she asked, smiling.

"My wife," he said.

"Oh." He had yet to tell her and she had yet to ask; it was another of their unspoken understandings.

"I like the sun," she said, "and I think I am not afraid of getting dirty."

"No, Princess?"

"No!" She stood to catch the weak rays of the sun, the faint warmth and impulsively she beamed at him. "You speak little, but only a fool would not listen."

"And you, my lady Princess, speak with a honeyed tongue. Only a fool would trust you."

She laughed.

The days faded, not peacefully, but passed they did, and the shadow crept onward until even those faint hours of sun began to wither away, and despair began to close around them.

* * *

><p>It was the fever that brought Kallista again to her door early one morning, her face tired and grey. She was oddly quiet when the maid showed her in and did not seem to care that the maid had just shaken Lothíriel awake moments earlier when the lady of Mandolin was announced. Gathering her robe about her, Lothíriel said, "Are you well?"<p>

"Please come back," said Kallista immediately. "The fever has spread and we are too few to care for everyone who comes."

"I am no healer," she said.

"I know." Kallista hesitated, her eyes pleading. "I know. And I would not ask you were it not important. I am leaving now, for I cannot delay, but even one more pair of hands would help. The more experienced healers will be administering linens, but we need hands to wash linens, empty bedpans, and bring water."

"I will meet you there," said Lothíriel, though she wanted nothing more than to send Kallista away.

"Thank you."

Dread knotted in her stomach as she scraped her hair away from her face and dressed. She did not want to go.

She could just stay here; no one would blame her.

Her feet moved of their own volition, taking her to fling her cloak over her shoulders, and then Dánaron was, as always, following her, opening the door for her.

"I don't know what came over me," she said to him. "Am I very brave?"

"No," he said. "Unless you find washing linens particularly daunting."

"Boring, actually. Is that very terrible of me?"

"Not especially. And you would admit it."

The wind whipped at her cloak.

Inside was very warm and more crowded than she had ever seen it; white-aproned healers whirled about, carrying trays and bowls and linens. To her surprise, the healer in charge directed her to bring water to the rooms.

"Cold water," she said. "They must drink water."

She saw Kallista, though only briefly, and one of the other healers explained to her that the fever was not life-threatening as long as the patients were cared for.

She did what they wanted of her. She brought water and sat with them until they drank, held basins as they vomited, gathered sweat-soaked linens, cleaned bedpans. She hated every moment of it, and had it not been for Dánaron- bringing her fresh water, sitting with barely lucid patients- she would have left before the first hour had passed.

Afternoon, then evening.

Lothíriel watched a woman die. The fever brought sufferers to a state of half-sleep, half-unconsciousness, where they wandered in a strange dark place. Some did not emerge. She was an old woman, old and frail and very tired, and for all Lothíriel's ministrations she did not wake, would not take the water she held to her lips, and Dánaron took her arm very gently, saying, "Princess, she is gone."

It was the very young and the very old who passed, and those who had no hope.

Night fell.

She was so very tired and the House was very warm; it brought sweat to her forehead and her breath came fast. "I think I need to lay down," she said, and then she was in a strange bed, set with the pure white linens of the House.

* * *

><p>Trees. Shade. Her bare feet crackled on dry leaves and then she stood atop a grassy hill. Shading her eyes, she made out a river and above it soared a few lazy birds, stretching their wings to the sun. She sat down, stretched out her legs, and flung a stick away from her.<p>

She was waiting for someone, though she did not know who.

Yes, who was she waiting for?

Frowning, she stood up, for she did not know this place, not the sun shining on her face, not the rowan trees that circled the clearing. She did not know how she came to be here. Perhaps she had gotten drunk, though Éomer said waking up after getting truly drunk brought on a headache like no other. Or perhaps it was one of Amrothos's silly tricks, bringing her here when she was asleep.

Voices. She heard voices.

"Hello!" she called, gathering up her skirt in one hand and running towards the voices. She saw two figures some distance away from her, a man and a child; the man's back was to her, but he was tall and broad, a cloak falling from his shoulders.

"Hello!" she cried again.

They did not turn. She was running very fast now and then suddenly her foot caught on a stone and she was tumbling down the hill, through stones and leaves and twigs that battered her face and hair until she slowed and moaned a little, then pushed herself back to her feet. She ached and her hair was tangled with bits of leaves and twigs.

She looked up at the hill. The two still stood there, but the child was backing away. She felt a prickle of anxiety, but gathered herself as a princess of Dol Amroth to confront them, panting as she mounted the hill.

"Hello," she said, drawing closer, and then suddenly the child was gone. Vanished. Where had he gone? She spun around very quickly but he was nowhere to be seen. Foreboding began to gather somewhere in her stomach like a heavy knot.

The man turned and suddenly she recognized him and cried his name. "Boromir!"

But he did not hear her, pushing past her to peer behind the rocks and trees, his face so wild that she almost did not recognize him. "Miserable trickster!" he cried. "Let me get my hands on you! Now I see your mind. You will take the Ring to Sauron and sell us all!"

"Boromir!" she cried, but he was shouting over her, and she reached for him to steady him, for he seemed half-mad, his mouth flecked with foam.

"Curse you and all halflings to death and darkness!" he shouted and then he fell and she ran to him, grasping his hand.

"Boromir," she said, "get up. Get up, _please_." She was suddenly terrified and clung to him like a child might. "Boromir?" He lay on the ground very still for a moment, this great strong man who knew no fear. Then he made to stand up and she helped, grasping his hand to pull him to his feet. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to lean on her.

"What have I said!" he cried. "What have I done? Frodo, Frodo! Come back! A madness took me, but it has passed. Come back!"

He was gone, running to the woods.

It was a dream.

She knew it was a dream and she felt very sick. Cursed am I, she thought, forced to watch and do nothing, and something stirs. Take me from this place, she thought, take me and let me see no more. Draw the veil across my eyes.

She sank to her knees and closed her eyes. She was acutely aware of the grass beneath her knees, the whisper of the wind through the trees, the crying of the birds. It did not fade. Why did it not fade? She knelt and listened to the sounds that pressed upon her, the wind stirring her hair, the faint chill that settled on her shoulders.

Then she heard it. The horn. The horn of the Gondor, the white horn.

"Boromir!" She was scraped and bruised and confused, but still she ran towards the sound, through the trees and the thickets to the sound of her cousin's horn.

Once, when she was very young, she had gone to Minas Tirith with her family and, playing tag with her brothers, she'd fallen and scraped her knees and hands raw. It had been Boromir who found her and gathered her up in his arms, for though her cousin was tall and strong and broad, he could be surprisingly gentle, almost as kind as Faramir.

"We can't have my lovely cousin so sad, now, can we?" he'd asked, and gently washed off her scrapes and bandaged them.

With Boromir she felt safe. He was too huge to ever falter; larger than life.

And yet she was terrified, though she knew he was strong and unfaltering and great. Running as fast as she could, her breath rasping at her throat, she had no breath to call his name, but she could hear in the distance the clash of metal on metal and then a new voice calling, "Elendil! Elendil!"

She did not care. She could think only of Boromir.

Bursting through the thickets she saw her cousin as he staggered backwards, a black-feathered arrow catching him in the chest, one of many. And then he fell, sinking to his feet, and it was as though a great ship was sinking.

She said his name again.

Running footsteps; a man wielding a great long sword dropped to his knees beside Boromir, pressing her cousin's hand. Boromir spoke to him, low and faltering, and Lothíriel drew nearer. It had not dawned on her to cry yet or to realize that, though this was a dream, it was truth as well.

"Farewell, Aragorn!" Boromir said, his voice faltering and unsteady. "Go to Minas Tirith and save my people. I have failed."

"No! You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith will not fall!" He pressed a kiss to Boromir's forehead as liege lord might. "Which way did they go? Was Frodo there?"

Boromir did not respond, for his eyes were falling shut.

"Thus passes the heir of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard!" The man's voice was edged with unarticulated grief and he bowed his head to Boromir's.

She drew nearer still and reached for her cousin's hand. "Boromir!"

Perhaps he hovered on the brink between life and death and for that reason he could see her, but his eyes flickered for a moment and caught hers. Then he was saying, "Come with me, Lothíriel," and though his body did not move, his hand caught hard on hers. He turned her and she saw not the trees but the ocean and upon the waters sailed the black ships: the Corsairs of Umbar.

"Will this come to pass?" she asked.

She could feel his strength behind her. "Go to Dol Amroth."

"But the Corsairs are coming!"

"You are my cousin," he said, "you will find the strength. Now go." She felt his hands on her hair as if in benediction and then she was alone, staring down at the body of her cousin.

* * *

><p>She woke to a faint grey haze and a strange girl seated at her bedside. She was small-boned and very pale, with long black hair and when she looked up, Lothíriel saw that her eyes so deep a blue as to be black.<p>

"You are awake," said the girl. "Good."

"Yes." Her tongue felt very thick and dry. The girl held a mug to her lips and she drank the water greedily, though much of dribbled down her chin. Her arms felt very heavy. "Was I fevered?"

"Yes," said the girl, "but it was not serious. You do not look like a Princess."

"No? What should a princess look like?"

"Beautiful," said the girl firmly. But then a smile suddenly sprang to her lips; an enigmatic expression. "Well."

"I am not beautiful?"

"You are very pretty."

She frowned. She was not sure she liked this girl.

"The Queen is very beautiful."

"There is no queen of Gondor." Perhaps the girl was mad.

"No," she agreed and then giggled shrilly. "There is no queen of Gondor."

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Oh," said the girl, "forgive me. I am sometimes very forgetful. I am Lalaith."

"Are you an elf?"

The girl laughed. "An elf! You are a very silly princess, too."

She closed her eyes and suddenly her dream roared back to her; Boromir's voice ringing in her ears. "What is the date, Lalaith?"

"Tomorrow will be the last of February," she said. "You dreamt, did you not?" She giggled again. "Oh, no, it wasn't fever. You are almost as mad as I am, silly Princess. They say it is the blood of Númenór that makes you dream so, just like Faramir."

"Where is my guard?"

"I will have him brought to you." The girl tilted her head and suddenly Lothíriel felt very uncomfortable under those eyes. "You have been a very silly Princess." Then her eyes rolled back into her head and in a strange, deep voice, she said, "Go to your home and look to the South, for they come."

"Lalaith?" she asked, reaching for the girl's arm, but it was limp.

Then abruptly she straightened. "Yes, Lothíriel?"

"You-,"

"Oh, yes. They call it the madness. I will call your guard, then, shall I?"

"Yes," she said, stunned. Lalaith's eyes were calm and unconcerned.

"Goodbye, Princess," said Lalaith with a sudden, beatific smile. She blew a kiss and all but danced out of the room, skirts flaring behind her.

She pressed herself to her feet with some difficulty. She felt a little dizzy, but that was the side effect of the fever.

"Hush, lie still." It was Mistress Ivorel; in her hands she bore a tray with a flask and bandages.

"I need to go."

"Sit, then, for the moment." The woman set down the tray and helped her to perch on the edge of the bed. "You are lucky. It was only a very mild fever."

"I am sorry," she said, "I did not mean to faint, truly!"

Ivorel smiled slightly. Lothíriel realized that her eyes were very sad, though the healer was not very old. "I am sure you did not. I am not upset with you."

"Good," she said. "That man... did he survive?"

"Yes, he is quite fine." Ivorel shook her head slightly. "A drinker, poor man."

"Surely it is his own fault that he drinks!"

"Highness, most turn to drink because of something dark within themselves. The drink is just a symptom of the true disease."

"And what was his disease?"

Ivorel paused. She had the gravity of someone much older, someone who had seen the ills of the world, and Lothíriel wondered what had happened to make her so sad. "Loss. He has lost something, or someone, very precious to him."

"I lost my mother," said Lothíriel. "I did not turn to drink!"

"No," said Ivorel. "But drink is only one symptom. Anger is another. So is loneliness, turning away from the world."

She could think of no answer.

"I hope I have not offended," said Ivorel. "Good day." She bowed, took up her tray, and left Lothíriel in silence.

She did not wait long, for she heard footsteps outside her door.

"Princess Lothíriel?" It was Dánaron, pushing open the door to her room. He bowed. "I am glad to see you well."

"How long have I slept?"

"Three days. You came in and out, though."

"I do not remember."

"No. You told the lady Kallista that her nose was purple."

"_What_?" She took his arm and leaned on it a little heavily. "Does that strain your back?"

"I am well."

"Good," she said. "Take me to the Citadel."

For once he looked startled.

"I need to speak to my uncle. My cousin is dead."

"Princess-,"

"_Now_!" She was stunned by the rising fury in her voice, but he did not flinch.

"As you wish."

Were it not for her faintly spinning head, she would have run all the way to the Citadel, but as it was, she would have stumbled several times were it not from her guard's steadying arm. The guards of the Citadels must have recognized her, but still they moved to bar her path.

"Let me in!" she said. "I must speak with my uncle."

"He does not wish to be disturbed," said one.

"I bring news of his son, the lord Boromir. I need to see the Steward!"

"The lord Boromir?" he asked, wavering.

"Stay here," she said to Dánaron, and, pressing past the hesitating guards, alone she went in through the hall and up the long, winding stairway to the Tower of Ecthelion. Her hurried footsteps echoed loudly in the ringing silence of the stairwell and she suddenly felt very small and alone, her breath coming fast and harsh in her throat as she grasped the rail heavily.

_Boromir._

At the top was a door and she flung it open without hesitating.

Her uncle sat with his back to her, hunched over something he cradled in his hands, illuminated by an eerie orange glow. She felt the press of the darkness about her, so close that she staggered backwards, gasping, swaying, groping for some support. Her eyes clouded.

Denethor whirled around, growing very tall and dark until he was almost unrecognizable. "_You_!" he cried, at first very loudly and terribly, and then said, more quietly and much more dangerously, "You_ dare _disturb me!" And then his hands were on her throat and she suddenly could not breathe, scrabbling away on the polished floor away from the demon that was her uncle.

And then the hands were gone and her uncle stared at her with huge, wide eyes. "Finduilas? Is it-,"

"Uncle!" she cried, her voice a pained rasp. "I dreamt of Boromir. _Boromir_."

He did not see her, his fingers lifting to her cheek in a softer gesture, his face so full of love that she cringed.

"No," she said, "no, it's me. Your niece. Imrahil's daughter. Lothíriel."

His fingers dug into her wrists so hard that they broke the skin. "The end is near," he said, his eyes somewhere far away. "Death comes for us all. From the East, black ships of the south-,"

"The Corsairs? Uncle?"

"They are coming," he said, "they will burn and pillage, they come from the river and they will destroy us all!" His mouth was flecked with saliva. "They come now, but what can we do, little pawns that we are? Minas Tirith with burn!"

They stared at each other and then he said, "Finduilas. My love."

She screamed and pushed him away, but his hold on her tightened.

"Uncle! Let me go!" She flung herself away from him and down the long, winding stairs, away from the strange orange glow of the Tower and her uncle who knelt on the floor, gasping out a name that was not hers. She was crying, her sobs tearing at her chest, stumbling and nearly falling, steadying herself on the railing, collapsing onto the cold polished floor of the long hall to gather herself.

Mad he might be, but so was she.

The Corsairs were coming.

She knelt there on the floor, her skirt pooled around her knees as she gasped for breath. She could not move but she could not stay there lest her uncle come and find her.

The Corsairs were coming.

She would not go back.

She could not go back. They would come and kill and burn; they had come before, killing and raping and tearing apart the land. She smelled smoke and blood and raw terror, billowing smoke that rushed to envelop the sky. She wished to curl around herself and close her eyes, pretend that she was a child and that nothing could harm her. She was small; her mother would come to her and sing her to sleep, tuck the quilts around her. She would be warm and safe and sheltered.

She was no warrior. She was no great captain, nor did she want to be. She was a girl who liked to garden and embroider and read. She liked quiet.

Éomer.

He would tell her that anyone could be brave. He loved his country above all else and no service was too great for the sake of his people. Surely she could do no less.

She was a princess of Dol Amroth. She stood up and pushed open the doors of the Citadel, stepping out into the courtyard where the guards waited.

* * *

><p>AN: Well? Interesting? Hopefully the story is beginning to pick up. Please review!


	7. Snakes, Ships, and Friends

Lothíriel, the princess of Dol Amroth, struggles to find her courage in the dark days of the War of the Ring, aided by her old friend Éomer of Rohan. Though she is a mere footnote in the history of Middle-Earth, she will be enough to shift the balance of the war.

A/N: I am basing some of this chapter on the assumption that Gríma is a man of Dunland (he is dark-haired while the rest of the Rohirrim are blonde).

Thanks to all my reviewers, especially Lady Demiya, who has given some awesome feedback! Please, if you're reading this story, drop me a review and let me know what you think- if you like it, your review will make my day, and if you don't, tell me why so I fix it.

Basically: review.

I do not own anything; _Lord of the Rings _belongs to the genius that is J.R.R. Tolkien.

* * *

><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-7-_

Snakes, Ships, and Friends

* * *

><p>"'Down, snake!' he said suddenly in a terrible voice. 'Down on your belly! How long is it since Saruman bought you? What was the promised price? When all the men were dead, you were to have your share of the treasure, and take the woman you desire? Too long have you watched her under your eyelids and haunted her steps.'<p>

Éomer grasped his sword. 'That I knew already,' he muttered. 'For that I would have slain him before, forgetting the law of the hall. But there are other reasons.'" (_The Two Towers, _King of the Golden Hall_)_

_._

"'Gibbets and crows!' he hissed, and they shuddered at the hideous change. 'Dotards! What is the House of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in their reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs?'"

(_The Two Towers, _The Voice of Saruman)

.

"Even as they spoke there came a blare of trumpets. Then there was a crash and a flash of flame and smoke." (_The Two Towers_, Helm's Deep)

* * *

><p>He would always remember the little girl who sat on the steps outside Meduseld, as foreign as any he had ever seen. Her hair was dark, unlike any he'd ever seen before, but it was her woebegone face that made him slow and then settle down next to her, stretching out his long legs alongside hers.<p>

"I'm Éomer," he said conversationally.

The girl picked up a stone and threw it. She was young, no more than ten, with long black plaits and a young girl's face face: wide set grey eyes, a delicate nose, childishly full cheeks, a small pointed chin. She was pouting.

He waited.

"Lothíriel."

"What's the matter, Lothíriel?" he asked.

Another stone rolled down the steps towards the grassy center of Edoras. The villagers directed a few curious glances towards this strange dark-haired child but otherwise ignored them.

"I want to go home."

"Where is home?"

"Dol Amroth. By the sea," she said. "The water."

"Well," he said very gravely, "we have a sea here, too."

She frowned. "Do not."

"Do too. Should I tell you?"

She folded her arms.

"It is the grass. Do you see?" The wind blew at their faces hard and the grass rolled as if it were indeed made of waves.

Finally he had provoked a reaction from her. "That's cheating!" she said, jumping to her feet. "Everyone knows that a sea must be of water."

"Maybe in Gondor, little princess," he said, laughing, "but here we are in Rohan. Tell me, do you like to ride?"

"Yes," she said, "but I had to ride with Papa here, 'cause I'm so little."

True enough, though the young princess of Dol Amroth was just beginning to grow taller and was now all long arms and legs.

"And I don't have any friends here," she added sullenly.

"No? Have you met my sister Éowyn?"

"Yes. But Éowyn says she is too old to play with me, and I don't like swordfighting. And 'Ro and 'Rion aren't here, and Elphir is in meetings with Papa and the king."

"You might just die of boredom," he said with grave concern, trying very hard to control a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"I might," she agreed and then looked at him very slyly. "Are those the stables?"

"Yes," he said.

"Race you!" And she was off, all gangly long arms and legs and laughing, he went after her.

He understood something of being caught; he was almost but not quite old enough to ride with an éored yet, but too old to play games with Éowyn, just as she was caught between childhood and the years before adulthood, so he let her sit in front of him on his horse and woke her in the middle of the night to teach her the stars and when the delegation from Dol Amroth left- their mission failed- she told him that she wanted to write him a letter, and he promised, "I'll write back."

Imrahil did not see, preoccupied as he was with his Knights; Theoden did not see, nor did Éowyn or Háma or the other doorguards, but he knew that one man did, and that was the man Gríma Wormtongue, the man who would come to haunt his sister's steps.

But for that day he did not care and offered the princess Lothíriel his best smile. "Until we meet again, my lady. I hope I will someday see your sea."

She wrinkled her nose. "It's much better than yours, anyway."

He laughed and then Imrahil called to his daughter and they were gone, riding off to Dol Amroth, and Éomer raised a hand to the little girl who did not look back.

* * *

><p><em>February 3019<em>

She was so fair, like a queen, like molten white gold. So lovely. So very fair. He watched her and he knew she felt his eyes on her. She should be flattered, she should run to him, for he would protect her. Why would she turn to her brother when she could turn to him?

He did not like the light of the hall; he did not like the brightness that exaggerated every passing emotion on his face, so he retreated more deeply into the shadows. The lady Éowyn knelt beside her uncle, her eyes tracing his face. If she turned to Gríma, he could take away her pain-

He sought her out that evening, the fair lady Éowyn, and for a moment he thought she looked at him with something akin to welcome, and hope soared in him. They stood together in the flickering shadows of the great hall, he standing in the shadows, but she stood split in two, light gilding the one half, tracing cheek to shoulder to hem, the other half cast in darkness. He opened his mouth to speak to her.

"What do you want of me, Wormtongue?" she demanded, and there was no hiding the cold fire in her voice.

Abruptly he fell back a little. _You would love me_, he thought. _When all are dead and lost and I am the only that remains, when I sit on this throne, you would love me_. "Troubled your thoughts must be, my lady."

"Yes," she said, "indeed, they are, for a snake haunts my steps! If you touch me, I will scream."

"And who will hear you?" he asked and he saw her eyes dart about. There was no one: no guards loyal to her, no watchful brother or cousin or uncle. "You think to defend yourself, Lady, but you are weak now."

"I am not weak!" she said, but her words had lost their venom. Strong of arm she might once have been, but hopelessness had set upon her, and she could barely raise her eyes to his. She saw death all about her, he knew; death lay in her future, in her uncle's, in her cousin's, in her brother's, in her country's, and that was enough to stay her hand.

"There are none to watch you now, Lady," he said and stepped closer, but suddenly her eyes were bright and strong.

"Éomer will cut you in two," she hissed and she seemed to grow taller, this lady of the House of Eorl. "He will feed your heart to the crows! You think me weak, but my brother will not hesitate to tear you from limb to limb!" Her voice rang with absolute conviction.

"Your brother," he said, "cannot guard you always!" It was a weak response for they both knew how he feared Éomer Éomund's son.

And then she laughed. A strange laugh, it was, high and cold and almost maniacal. "You do not know my brother, then! And you do not know me!" And she was gone, sweeping away in a flash of pure white and a stream of gold, like a vanished puff of wind, leaving him cold and dark and furious.

"You, lady," he hissed, "are of a rotting lineage. What is this house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in their reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs?" But she was gone and he spoke to empty air and shadow.

Silently he walked the halls until he came to the room that lay still and empty. The lady Éowyn often came here when she missed her brother, for this had been his room as a child and was his when he came to Edoras. He held the candle to cast long, flickering shadows across the walls and told himself it was folly to fear the Third Marshal's presence, for the man was long gone, riding across the plains of the Mark on his merry chase.

The Marshal's weaknesses were few, but foremost was his temper. In that respect he was a son of Eorl, a lesser breed, for his blood ran hot and unchecked, while men such as Gríma were stronger in their caution. But how to provoke him; that, Gríma did not yet know, and so he combed the room. The Marshal's last departure had been hasty and he had left behind all that he did not need: spare riding boots, tunics- but here, in the corner, in the chest of drawers, he drew out a yellowed stack of parchment. As he gathered them delicately into his hand, something fell to the floor, gleaming silver in the faint light.

A pendant of some sort; a tiny silver swan with a diamond for an eye.

_Dol Amroth_.

Surely he was mistaken, for there was no reasonable explanation, and he was above all else a reasonable man. Not a bad one; he did not wish destruction for its own sake, but for his own, for he would rise strong out of the ashes, and this house must fall! No, the House of Eorl had driven his people from his lands; they would set him aside, cast him into the shadows of history if not for his own wit.

He began to skim the pages.

Letters.

_I think your horses are ever so much nicer than ours, but I guess I don't really know because Papa won't let me ride anything but the pony, but he's so old that he can barely walk…_

He set it aside. A little girl. And would the Marshal leave behind something he considered precious? Surely these letters were of no importance.

But still he continued to read.

_My brother is newly married, you know, and my new sister is very odd and I think she is very ugly, but I heard Erchirion say that she has a very nice figure, but no one would explain it to me. What does that mean? I think men are sometimes very silly._

How strange for the Marshal to have kept letters from this little girl.

Then he saw the date. This child had been writing to him for nearly eleven years, and so he picked another, this dated _January 12, 3012_.

_I am very sorry to have delayed so long in replying, but I am afraid that it was inevitable. I did not intend to concern you, but in truth I have not had the heart to write to you for some time, though I appreciate your kindness._

_My mother is dead._

_I would ask a favor of you. My father gave me this necklace of hers; it was the pendant he gave her when they were married. She wore it everyday, but whenever I see it now I think of her, and that is something I cannot do. Yesterday I took it, intending to throw it into the sea, but as soon as it left my hand I jumped in after in, for I realized I could bear a complete parting. There will come a day when I may wear it again, but for now I do not want to see it, yet I will not rid myself of it forever. You told me once that death, though painful, is just the next adventure, but I cannot understand it now, so f I ask you to keep this necklace for me so that I may live without her ghost._

_L._

_L?_

Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.

Surely she was still very young.

That year that the prince of Dol Amroth came for negotiations with the king, though they all knew any hopes of furthering trade were fruitless, sunk as the Steward was in madness. A fool's errand. The prince had brought his daughter; the Marshal had bid her goodbye.

To think their correspondence had begun then.

He began to page through the letters again. There was a sharp divide, as though split into two stages, and following the news of her mother's death, gone was the childishly innocent young princess who babbled to her friend of horses and dolphins and her brothers and the sea, replaced by a strangely reserved writer. Gríma would have dearly liked to have seen what the Marshal had written to his young friend, if his interest was platonically brotherly or something more.

Either way, this was a suitable chink in the young man's armor.

* * *

><p>She dreamt of Tolfalas, of the lonely rocky island fortress that stood against the crashing waves. It was as she remembered, tall and formidable and silent, the guards patrolling the outer curtain wall. The afternoon sunlight softened the coldness of the stone, though, and her mind was already dancing down the corridors and stairs to the bottom levels of the fortress, her breath coming fast in her throat.<p>

Not the armory; they would find her there.

What of the store-rooms? Would they think to look among the potatoes and turnips and barrels of ale?

Most likely. Her cousin Galador was nothing if not a patient hunter.

It was a summer tradition, these visits to Tolfalas, for every June her father rode to the fortress to inspect the defenses- it was one of the most important fortresses guarding the passage to the Anduin and all of Gondor- and for as long as she could remember, he had taken his children with him, and often his older sister's children, too, Lothíriel's cousins. This was a special summer, for her oldest cousin Boromir was commanding Tolfalas and though he could spare little time for them, he was the biggest, strongest warrior she knew.

She hurried down farther, candle in her hand held high to light the way, for the corridors of the keep were dark. She came to a dead end and nearly slid on a rug laying on the floor, but she steadied herself.

How strange. The rug shifted aside, she saw faint cracks in the floor. She wedged her fingers into them and tugged. With a strange, pained groan, the floor came free and she saw it was a trapdoor leading to... something. It was a dark tunnel or room of some sort and for a moment she hesitated. Her fingers brushed against the wood of a ladder, and she saw that it stood as though awaiting someone. There could be monsters down there. Huge spiders. Dragons.

But she was an intrepid child and so she carefully set one foot on the uppermost rung of the ladder, her left hand steadying herself, her right holding the candle aloft. How strange. It was a storeroom of sorts, nearly empty, but against one wall stood a shelf with stoppered glass jars full of something dark. She set the candle down on the floor and clambered back up the ladder to close the trapdoor over her head, then set out to explore the jars. They were filled with some sort of strange dark powder. Holding the candle very close so as to examine the powder, she scooped some up in her hand and sniffed it gingerly.

How very boring, she thought, and set off to explore the remainder of the room. There was another door, but it was locked. She tugged at it but nothing happened.

She settled down to wait for her cousin, though she doubted he would find her. She had found the best hiding place in all the keep! So well was it hidden, though, that she couldn't hear him calling out his surrender, for he had dismissed the corridor as a dead end and not thought to venture further and examine the floor. So she sat there for some time, waiting for him to call out, but heard nothing.

And then the floor above her creaked and she heard someone calling her name.

Not her eleven-year-old cousin Galador, but rather a deeper voice. "Lothíriel?"

"Boromir?" Indignantly she scrambled to her feet. "That's cheating! You can't help him!"

Her oldest cousin scrambled down the ladder with unusual haste and he lunged for the candle immediately, blowing it out. "What were you thinking?"

"I was hiding!"

He grasped her arm. "Go."

She began to realize that she must have done something wrong, for she rarely saw him angry. She climbed up the ladder and through the open trapdoor, followed closely by Boromir. He set the now-darkened candle on the floor and rubbed a hand over his jaw.

"Lothíriel," he said, "you are _never _to go down there."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to."

"You could gotten yourself killed!"

"I'm sorry." To her eternal shame, she felt tears quivering on her lashes.

Boromir reached out to grasp her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. "Don't cry, Thiri. Let's go. I think," he said very wryly, "that this is the end of the cousins' visit to Tolfaras!"

"You mean I ruined it?" she cried. "You can't do that!"

"This is a fortress, not a playground," he said very firmly.

"But we come here every summer," she said. "Ada says we can!"

"Yes, well, I'll have a word with Uncle Imrahil. Let's go, little cousin."

"They'll be so mad at me!"

"If I were Uncle Imrahil, I would tan your hide," he said very grimly. "You have no idea how lucky you are."

"Why?"

His grip on her shoulder tightened. "Don't worry yourself." He turned her to face him and said, his face softening, "Look, Thiri, you know I'm mad because I care."

"I think you're being mean."

He laughed at her. "Probably."

She could not help a reluctant smile, for she loved her cousin Boromir, and she all but forgot the strange storeroom and the jars full of black powder.

* * *

><p>"You look as though you saw a ghost."<p>

"I did not," she said, thinking briefly of her uncle. "It was a dream. My cousin told me to go to Tolfalas."

"Tolfalas," he said.

"The island that guards the Ethir Anduin," she said. "I used to go there often. When we were little, Boromir commanded the fortress and we children would play hide-and-seek and distract him."

It took very little time to change and pack her saddlebags for the journey; Dánaron readied the horses in the stables and they guided them down through the levels of the city, out the great gates, and across the plains. She thought briefly and guiltily of Amrothos, to whom she had not said goodbye.

They rode across the great broad fields to the Rammas Enchor, the wind whipping at their faces, and she could feel the promise of rain in the air. It was cold; her hands on the reins were already numbing.

"Does it hurt your back to ride?"

"No," he said, "you worry too much, Princess."

The guards let them through when she announced herself very haughtily, and then they were gone, sweeping across the plains to follow the curve of the Anduin through Gondor. They pushed the horses hard, for it was a long ride to the mouth of the river and the Bay of Belfalas, and they rode until dark when Dánaron said, "We must rest the horses."

"Yes," she said, and stumbled upon dismounting. "But time is fleeting and we have not long."

She gathered wood for a fire while he tethered the horses and rubbed them down; through the trees that hid them she could just barely see the waters of the Anduin. It was strangely empty, for in times of peace the merchant ships sailed from the Bay of Belfalas to Minas Tirith, bringing their wares to sell in the White City. When the fire was crackling and hissing, he came to sit beside her and they ate the hard, salty bread he had brought with him.

"Tell me of your dream," he said, and she did. "I knew the lord Boromir," he said when she had finished, "though not well. He was a good captain. A good man. I would have followed him to the ends of the earth. As most would have."

"I did not know him as well as I would have liked. I cannot believe he is gone- it seems that a man like him could not disappear."

"He was larger than life."

"Yes." She held her hands to the fire.

"The captain of the Ithilien Rangers came to see you while you slept. Your cousin."

"Faramir!" she exclaimed. "I wish I had seen him."

"He was recently returned from Osgiliath, though we did not speak to each other. He was on an errand of some sort from the Steward."

"He has always been my favorite cousin, even more than Boromir. Boromir was very kind to me, but I was just a little girl and he was already a great captain of men."

"They were both good men, your cousins."

"Faramir still lives," she said, and clasped her knees to her chest in a shiver. "He would be a good Steward of Gondor."

Unspoken was Denethor's madness.

"He will not send them to war, though the shadow rises in the East," said Dánaron, but he spoke not of Faramir.

"I know." She looked out to the faint line of the Anduin. "He would have done nothing. He knew the Corsairs were coming and still he said nothing."

"I thought you feared them," he said.

"I do," she said, feeling very cold all of a sudden. "But I need to go. We need to warn them."

Silence, but for the crackling of the fire.

Then he said, "You have never asked me of my wife."

"I did not wish to offend. Or cause pain."

"It was the Corsairs that brought about her death," he said. He stared into the fire, his eyes seeing beyond the shadow of the woods and the hills and the river. "She was a very proud woman. Very beautiful. And very strong. As a sword."

She nodded, picturing a tall, slim woman with eyes of steel.

"I loved her very much. But when the Corsairs came, I rode to defend the castle."

"All the villagers were supposed to draw back into the castle- why did she not go as well?"

He smiled bitterly. "Aye, they were. But my youngest was ill and could not travel well." Silence. "I should have seen it. I should have taken them with me, but there were preparations to be made at the castle and I could not wait. I told her I would meet her there, once the battle was done, and did not consider that they could not move fast enough. You understand, Princess, that if a sword is too strong it will not bend. My wife could not bend. She shattered."

Lothíriel held in her breath.

"They moved too slowly, and when the Corsairs came, she would not let them touch her. We knew the tales of course, that they raped the women and killed the children. She died by her own hand. Killed our children."

There was nothing to be said. "You needn't tell me this."

"No," he said, "I want you to understand that I will fight those men until the end. I will not stop until they or I am killed. But for you, Princess- you have yet much to live for and I will see you turn your face to the sun. But for me-," he smiled at her, very gently. "Do not worry yourself. You are strong, and you will take what comes to pass in stride."

* * *

><p>Ivorel was one of the few permitted to remain in the city, for she had been a healer since she was a very young woman, and besides, Ioreth would not let her go.<p>

"Now, you look here," she said to the young soldier who had not had the wits to avoid a confrontation, "I won't have you taking my best healers from me! What do you think you'll do, then, when they bring all the wounded here? I'll bet then you'll be wishing you had listened to old Ioreth, and when you're in here screaming like a stuck pig, you'll want young Ivorel here to help you, d'you hear me? There isn't no one in the city better than her, besides me, of course, and I won't have her going off to who-knows-where. Evacuation! Hmph!"

"I will stay," she said very firmly, and that had settled the matter just as much as Ioreth's grumblings. Lalaith, too, refused to go, and one look in her strange blue-purple eyes had convinced the young man not to argue. So it was a few dozen of the healers, old women, most of them, and Lalaith and Ivorel who stayed behind, though the lady Kallista had wished to stay as well.

"I won't leave!" she had cried, her curls shaking in indignation. The girl did not lack in spirit or courage or skill, but she was yet young and had not the experience of the older healers. It had been the lord Amrothos who told her very ruthlessly to go away, that she was not needed. The girl's eyes had flashed but she had gone; Ivorel had seen her leaving with the rest of the noble ladies, in carriages, carrying all their silks.

"I'm looking for my sister," said the lord Amrothos. "Surely she must have recovered by now."

Ivorel opened her mouth to tell the young man that his sister must have left some time ago now, for she had not seen the princess in the Houses within the last days. Lalaith was quicker, though, and she said, "Oh, yes, she has. Mistress Ioreth sent her off already; I imagine she is long gone. Do not be afraid, milord. She is quite safe." This punctuated with one of the young child's eeriest smiles would have sent many a man running, but the lord Amrothos was persistant.

"Gone?" he said.

"Oh, yes. She is evacuated already." Lalaith treated him another of her smiles.

Once the lord was gone, Ivorel rounded on her young charge. "What have you been doing, Lalaith? Why does he think the princess is still here?"

Ivorel was not intimidated by Lalaith's smiles, and the girl knew as much. "I told him so, of course. The princess is long gone."

"Where is she?"

"Oh, by the sea," she said airly.

"The sea! Why the sea?"

"That is where she must go," said Lalaith.

"Is she safe?"

"Oh, no, not at all. In fact, I would be very much surprised if she lived."

"Lalaith!"

The girl shrugged, her face unshadowed, by Ivorel's heart was heavy. How strange was this child, that her visions did not affect her, that the death and despair she dreamt of did not weigh on her shoulders. She supposed that was a blessing, for else Lalaith could not live her life, but still it was chilling to see her so unaffected. For her part, Ivorel remembered the princess's strangely childlike and yet very ancient face.

"Oh, Lalaith," she said very quietly, "what a dark world we face now."

"You are not frightened, are you, Ivorel?" asked Lalaith.

"No," she said. "Death does not frighten me." It was the truth.

White teeth, small and pointed, like a cat's. "No, it does not." Humming, the child twisted a silver bracelet about her arm. A gift from the young captain of Gondor, no doubt, who had found the little girl years ago, an orphan scrabbling for food in the midden. She had uttered her first prophesy, then, or at least the first one that any chose to heed, but it was not the prophesy but the child's dirty, starved state that prompted young Faramir to bring Lalaith to Ioreth at the Houses of Healing. Since then Lalaith had lived there, a strange, ghostlike creature that floated through the Houses. She knew a little of herbs and leechcraft, but she came to only those she chose.

Ivorel shivered a little. No, she did not fear death for herself, but she could already feel the raw pain of those families torn asunder as hers had been. Dark times were coming.

* * *

><p>AN: Reviews! Please! I hope you enjoyed it :)


	8. To the Death

A/N: I borrowed from Peter Jackson's adaptation of _The Two Towers _for the confrontation at Meduseld between Éomer and Gríma Wormtongue. I may have also messed up the chronology of the Battle of the Fords of Isen_, _so please let me know if I've made a mistake.

Reviews make my day. They are also serious motivation. I have some awesome, amazing, constant reviewers that I love, adore, and worship, and I thank you guys for taking the time to drop me a note. I am always looking how to improve my stories, so if you have any feedback, I'd really appreciate a review.

* * *

><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-8-_

To the Death

* * *

><p><em>T.A. 3019<em>

_February_

* * *

><p>"Let me lie here - to keep the Fords till Éomer comes!" (<em>Unfinished Tales<em>, The Battles of the Fords of Isen)

.

"_My father sends me to Lossarnarch, the home of his distant cousins, because he thinks it will do me well, but sometimes I feel as though there is a darkness that will never be lifted…"_

- Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, to Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark

.

"He has rebelled against my commands, and threatened death to Gríma in my hall." (_The Two Towers_, The King of the Golden Hall)

.

"[T]omorrow will be certain to bring worse than today, for many days to come." (_The Return of the King_, Minas Tirith)

* * *

><p>"Your brother wishes to ride to war," Dánaron said.<p>

"Selfish sister that I am, I am relieved that he cannot. But in any case, he was never much of a warrior. Blood always made him sick."

"May I ask what happened to his leg?"

"It was a fall," she said. "A snake spooked the horse and he fell." She cleared her throat and added, "I will never forget it."

"You were there, my lady?" He sounded very surprised, though his face did not waver. "I believed you did not like riding."

"I did," she said. She could still see Amrothos's white face: _go get help, Thiri. Go! _"He was pinned. I rode back to the castle. I have not wanted to ride since."

He was silent, then: "I am sorry. I did not wish to pain you."

"No," she said, "actually, I do not mind. I feel- lighter. But I am not the horsewoman I once was." She winced a little, for she was sore. "Once I could ide for days on end. And I did, for I was a little barbarian then!"

"I cannot believe that," he said.

"No," she said, turning her face to the wind. "I am very different now."

"I think," said Dánaron, "none of us will be the same when this war ends. If we survive."

They rode in heavy silence and then she said, "We are passing through Lossarnarch," and against her will, she felt a smile break across her face, a tiny whisper of something good and beautiful loosening the knot in her chest.

"You have good memories of this place," he observed.

"Yes," she said. "Once, when I fifteen, I came to visit my family here. My father, or at least his older sister, is- was- a distant cousin of Morwen of Lossarnarch."

"The Queen of Rohan?"

"Théoden of Rohan's mother. But she died many years ago, when I was six years old. I met a very good friend here." And suddenly the burdens of the world seemed very light upon her shoulders, though they had miles to go before they reached Belfalas.

"You said you did not have friends."

"I have one. Look, the sun comes!"

The days rose and fell, and each passing hour brought them closer to the sea.

"I have always loved my home," she told him, "even before I knew of its renown."

"I have heard it said that it is a greater place of learning than even Minas Tirith."

"Because of our elf blood," she said. "_I _think that is fancy, but it is true in Dol Amroth's libraries lie the secrets of the elves and even the Istar."

"Mithrandir!" said Dánaron and in his face she saw a faint light of hope. "Perhaps he will come to Gondor's aid."

"Perhaps," she said.

They rode on, following the river to the sea.

* * *

><p>Théodred had told him once that his anger burned hot enough to scald not only his enemies but himself as well, but as he strode up the steps to Meduseld he thought his cousin's icy fury had done him little good, for the heir of all Rohan lay dead at the Fords of Isen. He knew as soon as the bodies that his cousin could not have survived, though he had held the tiniest bit of hope when the messenger had first arrived.<p>

"Find the king's son!" he ordered, steadying Firefoot. He dismounted and they began to search the bodies, turning them over to peer at distorted, bloodied faces. He recognized many of them, though they had been Théodred's men and not his. They had been Riders all the same, and he had drunk with them, ridden with them, sparred with them.

Here was Wulfric, the best swordsman in all the Mark, better even than Théodred. Not far from him was Ædelstan, newly married to a pretty girl he'd been in love with for years. All dead. Slaughtered.

"Marshal!" Éothain waved him over, his face grim.

Théodred. His cousin lay dead.

_L__et me lie here - to keep the Fords till Éomer comes!_

The Fords would not hold, Elfhelm had told him, not if the Uruks returned.

Fury broke over him in waves, seeing the cold, still face of the man he considered a brother; he could barely think, could barely see straight. Then abruptly his head cleared and he was left coldly furious.

"We go," he said, "to find my cousin's killers."

Éothain was the only one who dared to argue with him. Éomer felt his friend grip his arm, hard. "My lord Marshal. Éomer. Listen to me. The king forbade you to go after them-,"

"I don't care what he said. I will hunt them down," he said. "Ride now!"

"Éomer, he will not tolerate disobedience," Éothain warned him.

"I will not listen to that Worm!" he shouted and wheeled Firefoot.

Théodred. His cousin was dead, and that was the only thought that wheeled through his mind for those days, riding across the plains of Rohan, tracking the Uruks who had murdered his cousin. He saw Théodred's body in his mind as he dismounted and fought Uglúk sword to sword, his world narrowing to the gleam of metal in the Uruk's hand. Parry, slash, and then, catching his opening, he thrust Gúthwinë past the Uruk's guard and through his chest.

"This," he cried, "is for Théodred!"

Still he thought of his cousin as they rode back to Edoras and he stood at last in front of his uncle at Meduseld.

"Slain," he said in a clear voice, "by Orcs. Sent from Isengard, by Saruman. He seeks to take our land from us."

"That," said Wormtongue, "is a lie. Saruman the White has ever been our friend and ally."

His hand strayed to his sword and he would have struck the man there were it not for his sister's white-faced presence. His uncle could barely muster the strength to raise his eyes- poison. For years now he had watched Théoden fade from life and watched silently.

Now his cousin- his brother- was dead.

He would check his anger no longer.

"Orcs roam freely across our land," he said, "unchecked, unchallenged, killing and burning at will. Orcs bearing the White Hand at Saruman." He flung the helm at his uncle's feet.

For a moment Gríma stood in stunned silence.

Then his uncle spoke. Feebly. Quietly. "You were ordered not to pursue the Orcs."

"Uncle," he said, "they killed your son. They murdered Théodred. You would have me let them live?" Fury pounded at his temples and he stepped forward, willing Théoden to understand, as though by sheer force of will he could raise his uncle out of the abyss into which he had fallen.

"You have disobeyed the king," said Gríma, "and for that you must be punished. We are wearied of your whisperings against our friends, our allies."

"Whisperings?" he demanded and took a step closer. "How long since Saruman bought you, Wormtongue? You will pay for murdering Théodred, this I swear to you."

Wormtongue met his eyes with a slight smile creeping up his face, but still Éomer managed to stay himself, though barely. The man reached into a pocket and drew out something silver.

A silver swan on a chain, glittering with diamond eyes.

He lunged forward, slamming the man into the pillar, clenching his fist about his throat, the other tearing the pendant from the Worm's grasp. For Lothíriel. For Éowyn. For Théodred. For the uncle who sat decaying on his throne. He tightened his hold.

And then hands took his shoulders, and though he shook them off they clasped all the harder, prying him from Gríma's throat just as the man collapsed, gasping against the support of the pillar.

The guards.

He would give Gríma no victory: there would be no fear in his eyes, only pure, red-hot anger.

The king was standing, speaking to him. "To the dungeons!" Théoden could barely stand on his own and grasped at Éowyn's arm. She stood in silent horror and he willed her to be strong. _I will not leave you_.

"Uncle!" he said.

Then Gríma spoke, though his voice rasped, drawing closer. "You see much, Éomer, son of Éomund. Too much. But you are weak."

"I will see you fall!" he vowed. "I will not sleep until my sister is free of you!"

Until Rohan is free of you. The pendant in his hand dug into his palm.

* * *

><p>At first he barely recognized her, for she had grown from a child of nine to a young woman of fifteen, but she had changed in more than body. In her face he read gravity, a new awareness of sorrow, so different from the uninhibited little girl he had met so many years ago. He had seen this new solemnity in her letters but it was not until she turned her head slightly to examine the intruder on her solitude that he realized how deeply the scars of her mother's death ran.<p>

Her face was set in politeness, her eyes icily composed, but then they flickered and she asked, "_Éomer_?"

"Lothíriel," he said.

She flung herself at him and he grasped her to swing her about as though she were just a child, and to his surprise she flung back her head and laughed, for a moment erasing the pain in her face.

I was right to come, he thought.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Are you disappointed?"

"No!" Then she realized he was teasing her and hit his arm lightly. "I am just surprised, that is all."

"When I received your letter saying you were coming here to Lossarnarch, I told my uncle that I wanted to visit my cousins. Morwen Steelsheen was my grandmother."

"Yes, so you have said. Did they believe you?"

"Of course! I am an excellent liar."

She laughed, but the pain returned just as swiftly as the laughter had come.

"You are not well," he said and took her hand in his.

Lothíriel traced a pattern in the fabric of her gown and did not meet his eyes. "No," she said, "I miss her very much."

"Of course you do. She was your mother."

"I know I should be over it, but everything I see reminds me of her. And they cannot believe that I am anything but a little girl." She cleared her throat and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. "What did you do?"

"I thought of the good times," he said. "And I had an uncle who became a father, and a cousin who was like a brother. And I had Éowyn to care for- she was so young, younger than you, even."

She rested her head against his shoulder. "Will it ever stop hurting?"

"In time," he said, "it will take time. But you will always feel it."

"If I could, I would never love again. It hurts too much."

"Would you prefer that your mother had never lived, then?" he asked her gently.

"No! But I-,"

"Loving is worth the pain," he told her, "believe me! Though a shadow casts itself over Rohan now, we will one day emerge and the sun will be all the brighter for the darkness we have endured." He felt her take a deep, shuddering breath, and again he took her in his arms, resting his head on hers. "Don't give up yet. Though there is sadness now, you will be happy again."

She nodded against his chest.

"Promise me?"

She did not hesitate. "I promise."

They sat together in silence.

"I knew you would come," she said finally. "Not here. But I knew you wouldn't leave me alone."

"Come," he said, "I think dinner will be served soon. We will pretend to be complete strangers so Forlong and propriety are not offended."

* * *

><p>The Anduin twisted for nearly two thousand miles through Gondor, and as the river flowed past Lossarnarch the land grew forested and flat and very quiet but for the occasional village. As night fell the wind rustled the trees and it grew very cold, so Lothíriel was relieved to see the faint glow of a town ahead of them and she suspected that Dánaron was, too, though her guard's face was unreadable.<p>

"We must stop for the night," he said.

"No! she protested, though in truth she would have liked nothing better than to spend the night at an inn where there would be soft, warm beds and hot food. "We have to keep riding to warn them!"

"The horses cannot go any farther," he said, "and if we travel any longer, you will fall asleep and then fall off."

Finally she conceded and they turned the horses to the town and the lights ahead of them.

It was barely a town, so small was it: a little cluster of thatched houses, an inn, and a smithy. Once it might have seen better days, but now it lay quiet and almost empty, perhaps in the days when ships along the Anduin had been plentiful and unworried by the threat of Mordor. The innkeeper looked at them askance and, looking down at herself, she realized what he saw: a young woman and a man old enough to be her father, though they bore no resemblance to each other, mud-splattered, grimy, saddle sore, and wearied.

"My niece and I would like a room for the night," said Dánaron.

"Oh!" said the innkeeper, his face relaxing, and she wondered indignantly if he had suspected some sort of connection between the two of them. She scowled at his back as he led them to their room. It was small but the beds would no doubt be softer than the ground outside.

She let her saddlebags drop onto the quilt and said, "I'm starved. Let's go find something to eat."

The common room was warm and she felt herself beginning to thaw, though barely, and she sipped cautiously at her ale. The room was half-empty (or half-full) and she felt the weight of its stares and began to shrink into herself until Dánaron said with a hint of a smile about his eyes, "They mean no harm. But these are mostly village folk and they don't get too many strangers, I would wager."

"How do you know?" she demanded.

"Why, Princess, have you never learned to read faces?"

"You cannot _read _a face. A person is no book! Or are you a seer and can see the writing across their forehead?" She took another sip and said more quietly, "I am sorry. I do not meant to be out of sorts."

"They know each other well," he said, "they are comfortable with each other. Call each other by name. Stay here a moment."

He went and sat down, and though at first the villagers seemed wary of the stranger, they began to lean in closer to him, their gestures more animated and uninhibited. She watched the firelight as it flickered across their faces, revealing half-smiles, laughter, hesitation. Reading faces, indeed, but soon she began to understand what he meant.

It was some time before he returned to sit with her, at which point she had carefully managed to sip only half her ale. It was an art, she had learned, learning to appear to drink without actually doing so, else she suspected she would be roaring drunk. Her brothers, save Elphir, all had a terrible time holding their drink and she had been privy to more than one _very _animated homecoming.

"What do they say?" she asked.

"We are in Lebennin, very near the junction of the Anduin and the River Sirith. The road is just across the river, but I still do not think we dare take it, not in times like these."

"Lebennin!" she said. "So far!"

"We are setting a faster pace then when you came, Lady," he said. "It is not much farther yet. I think by tomorrow we will be to Linhir. Perhaps another day after that to Dol Amroth."

"Do they have news?"

"The lord Denethor has called for reinforcement to the White City," he said. "The princes will muster their armies."

"Then there will be none left to guard the castle!" she said, her voice rising in agitation. A few heads turned towards them.

"Peace," said Dánaron. "I know not what you hope to accomplish, but I think what is meant to be will come to pass."

"I do not know if that is comforting or not," she said into her ale.

To her surprise, he laughed aloud.

As the days of their journey had gone by her sleep grew more and more restless and that night she woke with a start, the beginnings of a scream in her mouth. Instantly she heard Dánaron stir from the other side of the room and he asked her, "Princess? Are you well?"

"Yes," she said, "just a dream. I can't even remember what it was."

"These dreams," he said, "are they of the House of Dol Amroth?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your brother told me once that the prince Elphir dreamt of that which would come to pass."

She went very still. "Elphir had dreams? He told me dreams were not to be trusted."

"Perhaps I am mistaken, then."

"No," she said, for she knew him well enough by now to know he did not say anything unless he was certain of what he said.

She heard him strike a flint and then a candle flared to life. "Can you sleep?" he asked.

"I don't think so. You would think that I could, because for all that these beds are the worst I have ever slept in, they are better than the ground. But I can't." They sat in silence for a long while and then she realized belatedly that he must be tired. "Oh! I am sorry- please, I hope I have not disturbed you."

"You have," he said, not unkindly, "but in truth my sleep was troubled, too. Few of us now can delude ourselves and believe all is well in the world. In any case, it is nearly morning." He went to draw the curtains and she saw that though it was dark, the sun was beginning to touch the horizon. "Look on the light," he said, "for I fear it will be long before we see it again."

"I hope it is just the gloom that makes you say so," she answered.

"As do I, but I think not."

"Yes," she said. "If I have learned anything of you, it is that you speak only the truth, and even that does not come lightly to you."

Morning came slowly and they gathered what little they had brought. Lothíriel had bathed the night before, but all she had were her grimy, travel-stained clothes and had there been a mirror she no doubt would hardly have recognized herself. She wondered what Éomer or her brothers would have thought of her if they could see her. The innkeeper bid them a surprisingly cheery goodbye and then they saddled the horses.

"I am glad we are close," said Dánaron, "for I do not think they could travel much further."

"I couldn't either!"

That night they spread their blankets on the hard, cold ground and she tossed and turned, wandering through strange dreamlands that made little sense to her hazed mind. She was exhausted, yet she knew sleep would bring no relief. The hours stretched by and she had just managed to close her eyes when it felt as though a hand touched her forehead and a voice that was very dear to her said, "Sleep now, Cousin," and she did until the first light of dawn when Dánaron very gently shook her awake.

That day they rode hard until midafternoon, when the city began to take shape in the distance.

* * *

><p>When he was just a boy, his mother had taught him to kill. His father's face grew long and dark and pinched, for there was little food to be found in the vast desert that was Umbar. From his mother he learnt the coldness of the world, of the fate that had befallen their country, their people, but from his father he learnt of the might of Númenór whose blood still ran, though faintly, in his veins.<p>

His mother was of the proud line of the Corsairs; his last memory of his grandfather was of a weathered, stern face, a strong man who held his hand in one last farewell as he left the port, descended from the line of Castamir who once sat on the throne of Gondor. But those days had passed and his people were exiled to the lands far to the south, and so he died far from the land he would call a home.

On his pallet, feigning sleep, he heard his mother's voice, loud and insistent, then his father's quieter tones.

"He will be a farmer."

"And sow grain amidst the rocks and sand?" she demanded. "There is nothing for him here!" Then she began to sob. "I will not have him starve and wither like we have!"

His father taught him to tell between a weed and a stalk of wheat, though precious little could survive in Umbar, but also from his father he began to understand something of a place beyond the deserts and rocks he had grown to know, a haven so far gone that it remained only as a memory of a legend. It was from his father that he learnt the thirst from the lands beyond Umbar, but from his mother came the means to seek them.

"These are dangerous times," she said and taught him where a man's blood flowed and how to stop it: a slice across the throat, a thrust to the gut. "You must take from this world all you can, for it would deny you even the right even to breathe. Do you hear me? Take it while you can!"

And so he became a Corsair, sailing, plundering the land that by right of birth should have been his, for was he not of the same Númenórean blood as the grey-eyed people of Dol Amroth? He took what he could, the precious gold and silver, the spices, the diamonds, though little was left to him, lowly Corsair though he was. Perhaps it was his will, his dream of a long gone place that lent him strength, or else it was his mother's quickness, her desire for constant movement.

In another man that quality could have been called ruthlessness, and sometimes they said as much. When he closed his eyes to sleep, the blood began to wash over the seashores, the rolling green pastures, the golden stalks of wheat.

And then he no longer dreamed, for he was a Corsair of Umbar and a great captain of men, but still in his heart lingered the dream of Númenór.

* * *

><p>The great fortress of Dor-en-Ernil was not in the city of Dol Amroth but on the rocky island of Tolfolas that guarded the mouth of the Anduin. Tolfolas was small and its terrain was rough and harsh, but none could enter the Ethir Anduin, the Mouths of the Anduin, without first bypassing the fortress that was perched seemingly precariously amidst the rocks and jagged cliffs of the island. The Anduin was the gateway to Gondor, and in times of peace it was a merchant's haven, stretching to all the great cities of the realm, but in war it was weak.<p>

Farther to the north was Dol Amroth, perched on the cliffs overlooking the sandy beaches of the Bay of the Belfalas. It was one of the richer cities of the realm, but it lay far to the north of the Ethir Anduin.

The Corsairs would not come to Dol Amroth, not if they wished to sail for Minas Tirith.

As they drew closer she could smell the salt air and heard the cry of the seagulls from the beaches, wheeling about from the ocean to the more sheltered waters of the Ethir Anduin.

"To the guardhouse," she said, and they turned towards the small stone watchtower where the men-at-arms stood. The clouds across the sky were heavy and it began to sprinkle as they pulled the horses up along the hill.

She did not know the soldiers on duty, but Dánaron apparently did, for one came to greet them, and they clasped each other's forearms briefly.

"Halthaith," he said. "The princess Lothíriel wishes to cross to Tolfalas."

"Princess?" said Halthaith. He was a large man who had likely seen battle, for a scar ran from temple to chin. He looked at her with little liking. "The sea is rough today. Surely you do not wish to cross."

"My uncle the Steward sends a message."

The soldier flicked a glance at Dánaron as if commiserating on the folly of women. True to his nature, her guard's face did not waver, but still Halthaith persisted. "Princess-,"

"The Steward sent me," she said, drawing herself up to her height, which, especially mounted on her horse, was formidable, and she loomed over him. "He sends me with the news that the Corsairs are coming."

Halthaith did not blanch, but his face grew very stern. "Very well, then. Tie the horses here and we will care for them. Quickly- the sea is not pleasant today, and I think the waters will grow rougher if we delay."

She dismounted, but her fingers were too numb to tie her horse to the post. Dánaron took the reins from her and knotted them quickly, his hands deft and swift.

"Let's go," said Halthaith and she scrambled into the tiny boat that lay beached on the shore.

It was large enough for three of them, but unsteady, for it was light and flimsy, meant to be destroyed at a moment's notice in case of an attack. The waves were calmer in the protected waters here than the beaches of Dol Amroth, but Halthaith had spoken truthfully: the sea's temper was mercurial, and today it seemed especially displeased, for the waves rocked the boat dangerously. She had been born to the sound of the waves and the sea and as such did not fear the water, but still she clung to the side very tightly. Stormclouds rolled to cover the sky.

The strait of Tolfalas was especially treacherous, for it was dangerously rocky. It took a skilled captain to navigate these waters, and the only way to pass safely to the Ethir Anduin was to hug the coast of Tolfalas and then turn abruptly to the east, else the ships would be wrecked on the sharp rocks. In such a small boat they did not need to concern themselves with the rocks, but the wind and the current worked against them, fighting to blow them off course, and it took both Dánaron and Halthaith's strength to ferry them to the island. She did not offer to help, and in any case, she would have done little to help. Storm clouds were rolling in across the sky and in the distance she saw the coming rain.

With one last great pull, Halthaith brought them up onto the rocky shore, digging his oar into the ground to hold them steady. She nearly stumbled when she got out but then steadied herself. The rain was coming closer. To the south, she saw only rocky shoreline and stormclouds.

The fortress was just as she remembered, a guard standing atop the broad curtain wall, another guarding the gate who let them in with much creaking. The rain had reached the island, first a faint sprinkle and then harder until it was pouring, soaking her hair and face and clothes, muffling their footsteps and words. She was suddenly cold and shivering in the storm.

"We need to see the commander of the fortress," she told the guard who opened the gate for them. It was heavy gate and it took two men to open it, even with the help of a crank. "I have a message from the Steward."

He led them past in the inner wall, where, glancing up, she saw the arrow loops for the archers, and then finally into the keep itself. This was no palace or castle; Tolfalas was built as a fortress with none of Dol Amroth's ornamentation. They went up narrow, spiraling staircases, meant to give defenders the advantage of surprise in case the walls were breached, through the maze of passages and turns and rooms that had made it such an ideal place for hide-and-seek when they were young children. Back in the bloody years of the Kin-strife, Tolfalas had changed hands from side to side until, the stories ran, blood ran down the stairs and soaked the beaches of the islands, leaving ghosts behind to stalk the hallways of the fortress. As a child, she had only half-believed the stories, but now, the rain drumming on the roof, she fancied she could see the wraiths vanishing about the corners, ghosts of a time long ago. The corridors were strangely empty, for whenever she had come here, there had always been plenty of guards, all ready to run to man the catapults or string their bows in case of an attack. Perhaps it was the exaggeration of a childhood memory.

The heart of the keep.

For years her father had come here to confer the commanders he stationed at the fortress, for Tolfalas lay in the waters of Dor-en-Ernil, the realm of the Princes; it was one of the most strategic outposts in all of Gondor. It guarded all trade up the river; it marked the border between Gondor proper and southern Gondor. In order to raid the richest cities in the country, the Corsairs first had to pass by Tolfalas.

"Captain, a messenger from the Steward," said the guard and let them pass.

She recognized the commander as one of her father's men-at-arms, Captain Tercil. He recognized her, too, for he greeted her by name.

"Princess Lothíriel," he said, but he was one of those strange creatures upon whom rank had no bearing, so focused was he on his duties. "A message?"

"The Steward sent me to warn you that the Corsairs are coming," she said. The words fell into the empty, still air and only once they had hardened and solidified in the open did she realize how pathetically inadequate they were. How simple of a message. Was it truly worth the ride all the way here?

Tercil's face hardened. "Is he certain?"

"Yes," she said, "he is."

He began to pace and slowly awareness began to settle upon her. The muster. Her father had called all his knights and soldiers to Minas Tirith, leaving only a bare handful to guard Dol Amroth and Tolfalas. That was why, then, she had seen so few guards here. Tercil's face was hardened in thought. It was not a pleasant face, for his features were strangely intense, as though carved from granite. He was a master swordsman, she had heard, and though not especially charismatic or inspiring, he was hard-working, fair, and determined. He was one of her father's best commanders, she had heard, though just a commoner, and growing old for active duty.

Surely there would be no problem here, she thought. The Corsairs, when they wished to sail up the Anduin (rarely though it was) always slipped by Tolfalas under cover of night, attempting to avoid the flaming arrows and catapults. They would not actually invade the fortress; it had been centuries since an enemy dared to set foot on these shores.

"That is all, Captain," she said and dropped a clumsy curtsy. "By your leave. It will be a difficult crossing in this storm, but-,"

"I'm afraid you may not leave, Princess," Tercil interrupted, meeting her eyes very coolly.

Her heart dropped somewhere into the region of her stomach.

* * *

><p>Thirty seconds for you=HAPPY Claire.<p> 


	9. The Days without Dawn

A/N: We're told that it's a Hobbit custom to, on his/her birthday, to give presents to everyone, so my birthday present to the five people who read this story is a new chapter :) Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! A special thanks to the awesome **Lady Demiya**, who has given me tons of great advice.

I do not own anything; J.R.R. Tolkien is a genius. Apologies for messing anything up.

* * *

><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-9-_

The Days without Dawn

* * *

><p><em>T.A. 3019<em>

_8-10 March_

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><p>"There is a great fleet drawing near to the mouths of Anduin, manned by the corsairs of Umbar in the South. They have long ceased to fear the might of Gondo, and they have allied themselves with the Enemy, and now make a heavy stroke in his cause." (<em>The Return of the King<em>, Minas Tirith)

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"The others pressed on, but he was ever hindmost, pursued by a groping horror that seemed always just about to seize him; and a rumour came after him like the shadow-sound of many feet. He stumbled on until he was crawling like a beast on the ground and felt that he could endure no more: he must either find an ending and escape or run back in madness to meet the following fear." (_The Return of The King_, The Passing of the Grey Company)

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"For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens... a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet [I] knew that [she] was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day." (_The Return of the King_, The Houses of Healing)

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><p>He was right, of course. Infuriating man. The rain that had begun as a mere drizzle had morphed into a full-fledged storm that seemed determined to dump the contents of half an ocean onto the fortress. She had ventured very briefly onto the inner curtain wall and saw that Captain Tercil had spoken truly when he said she could not cross back to the mainland that night. Not in this storm. Even her strong stomach might be tested on these waves, if the tiny little boats could withstand the churning waters.<p>

She was shown to a tiny closet of a room; she had often stayed here during the summer when her father came to inspect the defenses of his province's most important fortress, but then of course it had seemed much bigger. It might have originally been a storeroom of some sort, for she had only a pallet to sleep on and it was icily cold, no matter how tightly she wrapped the thin blanket around herself. All too soon someone was knocking on her door and she stumbled to open it.

"Princess." It was Dánaron, holding a torch in his right hand, his left raised to knock. "You did not sleep well?"

"Not well at all," she said. "Wait a moment." She tidied herself as best she could behind a half-closed door, exchanging one particularly mud-encrusted tunic for one that was slightly less filthy. She thought wistfully of her seemingly endless wardrobe at home in Dol Amroth or even in Minas Tirith. Was it only two nights ago that she had bathed? There was no water even with which to clean her face.

"Has the storm cleared?"

"Very little."

"I wish to go onto the curtain wall," she said. She had forgotten how stifling Tolfalas was, for in the need to protect, it stripped away all freedom. There were no windows, nowhere to take a deep, gasping breath of fresh air.

"I was almost afraid the day would not come," she said once they stood in the open air. "Is that foolish of me?"

"No, my lady," he said very gravely. "I think that may yet come to pass."

The sea still writhed as if in torment, sending great waves of water crashing up onto the rocky shores of the island. On a calm day- a very rare occurrence- the water would be nearly still and almost glassy, as if just beneath the surface was not a bed of lethally sharp rocks that would wreck any ship that dared leave the relative safety of the narrow channel that ran almost parallel to the shore. Dangerous waters were these. The sky was still dark, the rain still strong; already she was soaked to the skin. The men who stood along the wall withstood it with seemingly unfailing patience, peering out through the clouds to the sea.

She went back into the relative calm of the keep.

Inside, she turned to Dánaron, who waited beside her very patiently. "What preparations have they made?"

"All the boats have been drawn into the keep or farther inland."

"Boats? But surely they wouldn't try to invade."

"A precaution only, my lady," he said. "The archers and the catapults have been readied, and the lookout has an eye turned to the south."

She shivered a little, whether from cold or foreboding she did not know. "I think I'm hungry," she said. "Have you eaten?"

He had not, explaining he had waited for her.

They made their way to the mess hall and though she took a bowl of gruel she could not turn her mind away from the thought of the Corsairs. She gagged on a mouthful; it tasted of wet sand.

"What is this?" she demanded.

Dánaron did not seem bothered. "A soldier's fare, my lady."

She choked down another mouthful. "Disgusting."

Someone laughed; catching her eye, the soldier winked. "Close your eyes. It helps."

Looking around the mess hall, she spotted Captain Tercil sitting at a table with his men and for a moment she saw not the stern, granite-faced commander she had met the night before, but just another soldier who loathed an army cook's gruel and turnip soup. Perhaps he was a man, too, one with a family: a wife and children. A home. What did he fight for?

Questions she had never considered.

Lothíriel was not a kind person, nor did she feel any great stirrings of liking for this man, so different from herself but yet not unlike those she cared for. There was something of Dánaron in his manner, though he might be more abrupt, and he seemed to care for his duty much like her brother Erchirion did: unbendingly, fixedly, without color or soaring enthusiasm but instead with quiet, unwavering dedication. Perhaps it was this consideration that brought her to smile very briefly at him before turning her attention back to her meal.

And perhaps it was that acknowledgement that led to her being summoned to his study, where she found herself among the group of his advisors, most of them middle-aged, scarred men who had seen their fair share of combat. One was especially colorful in the euphemisms he applied to the Corsairs: she blushed scarlet red and ducked her head.

A few glanced at her as if to gauge her reaction, but she sensed she was no novelty to them or perhaps they had much more pressing concerns on their mind and could not be bothered with her. Once the man- Galcherdir, she thought his name was- had paused for a breath (and a drink out of something in a flask) she leaned to Dánaron to ask him why they did not treat her with more hostility.

"I imagine they are impressed that the Steward sent you to warn them," he offered. "It was a long, difficult ride."

She nodded ruefully, for her back and legs ached like they never had before. On the ride to the White City from Dol Amroth, they had set a much more leisurely pace and followed the road. But then, three and a half months ago had been a very different time.

"And Captain Tercil is a good man. They trust his judgement," he added.

Galcherdir continued. He was a solid man, his stomach impressively rounded, but there was strength beneath his benignly doughy face, wiry power in his large hands. "They will come by night," he argued, "those bloody Corsairs! Sly, turncoat bastards, they are-,"

She was very cold, for her clothes were still damp from her brief venture out onto the walls. She pitied the poor men charged to keep watch for the Corsairs.

The unanimous agreement was to arm the catapults, for they would be most effective. In this rain, fire arrows would be of little use. Their best bet would be to slow the Corsairs as much as possible, for skilled sailors that they were, they would maneuver their ships quickly through the treacherous passage. They would have to be alert at every moment else they would slip by, as they had done for many years to raid the cities of Pelargir, though at heavy losses.

"And what," said another man, icily cold, "if they turn and fight?"

"Turn and fight? You think they will fu -,"

Tercil cleared his throat.

"- that they will turn and fight?" Galcherdir amended. "For hundreds of years, they have not had the courage to stand and fight us!"

She decided she did not much like this man who interrupted. His face was beautiful, almost like a woman's, but his eyes were smugly supercilious, his shoulders broad, his hands a map of scars. "Friend Galcherdir," he said mockingly, "your drink gives you much talk. Talk, talk, talk. Little of it does you any good."

"Peace, Malurust," said Tercil, holding up a hand. "Lieutenant Galcherdir has proven his worth."

Malurust bowed from his chair. "Of course, Captain." There was just a hint of respect in his voice for the captain. "Why should they not stand and fight?"

Utter stillness.

"After all, we have very nearly no men to defend this fortress and no reinforcements on the way. If they have even the brains of Lieutenant Galcherdir, they would storm the island."

"It would be folly," said a third. "We have the advantage- high ground!"

A fourth coughed. He was the oldest of them all, thin as a reed, his nose bright red and pealing, and he squinted as though he needed spectacles. "Much as I am loathe to admit it, Malurust here has a point. Why should they not take it?"

"Take it!" bellowed Galcherdir, but some of the fire went from his face. "We will fall!"

Dánaron looked at her very somberly. For her part, Lothíriel could only clasp her hands together tightly in her lap. What a fool she had been, to catch herself in the middle of this mess! And how she wished she were anywhere but here.

A memory tugged at her, but it was gone as fleetingly as a wisp of smoke.

"What orders from the Steward?" asked the fourth man.

Suddenly they were all looking at her.

She shook her head, unable to force words out into the open air. Then she finally managed to rasp, "None."

They were all turning to look at Tercil, as if in his face they could find some answer but there was none.

Galcherdir let out an especially inflammatory exclamation and she flinched.

"And how would they know we have no men?" demanded the third man.

"Don't trust to luck, my lad," said Galcherdir.

"The fortress must hold," said Dánaron very quietly. "The forces of Mordor are descending on Gondor."

"Osgiliath-," said the third man, but even he sounded desperate.

"Osgiliath will not hold," said Dánaron.

Silence.

"Gondor's armies can hold it!"

"Fool," said Malurust. "We lost the west bank months ago. The east is only a matter of time. Gondor cannot withstand this storm. The Corsairs from the south, Mordor from the east."

"Our concern is not Osgiliath, or even Minas Tirith," said Tercil. "We defend the Ethir Anduin."

"And what if they storm the fortress?"

"Then we fill fight."

"To the death," Galcherdir said. "That is how it will come to pass, then."

Even Malurust looked shaken, but he bowed his head.

Lothíriel fled the council as soon as she could, for she found only hopelessness in their grim plans to defend the fortress and the mouths of the Anduin. Archers. Catapults. Boiling oil. Barricades. For once Dánaron did not move to follow her, for he was just as much a commander as they. She saw not the man who was her guard but a captain who spoke with authority and who understood how to defend a fortress, a man prepared for sacrifice. It was chilling and she thought of her brothers.

Amrothos, at least, would be safe.

* * *

><p>He went to visit his sister again but once more that strange healer-child with the purple eyes turned him away.<p>

"You must be mad!" he protested. "My sister must be sent away with the rest of the women and children and old men. She cannot stay here! Let me say here."

The child giggled. He had never seen such terrifying eyes. And her teeth! She wouldn't eat him alive, would she? He valiantly suppressed a shudder. "She has already been sent away. Don't worry." She reached up to pat his cheek. "She is not here anymore."

"What do you mean? She was already sent away? Why didn't she tell me?"

"She is still resting," said the girl. "Recovering. You may not see her."

"I won't leave without her," he said.

"She is already gone."

"Evacuated?"

"Yes," said the girl. "Yes, evacuated. But is there safety anywhere, little friend? Evacuated so they might die later?"

"Lalaith, come." It was another of the healers, a tall, somber-faced women. "My lord, are you well?"

"Yes," he said, trying very hard not to look at Lalaith, for her purple eyes all but burned into his skin. He would have pressed this more normal healer for answers- where had Lothíriel been sent? Why hadn't he been told?- but he would not stay a moment longer in this strange child's presence. "Good day."

The city was strangely quiet now that almost all had been evacuated; even Kallista had left. He had gone to visit them yesterday and found the house in the pandemonium that accompanied an evacuation and what was stranger, the maid had told him Taregon would not receive him, that he was to ride out in the morning to join the muster of the armies, and when he had asked to see the lady Kallista, the maid had turned him away.

Strange.

He had a feeling, though, a growing sense of dread kindled by the rumor that the lord of Mandolin was suddenly very eager to negotiate his son's marriage. He wondered if the lord had heard the whisper that perhaps the friendship between Amrothos and Taregon was somewhat more than that.

His own father was perhaps a little more tolerant, but even he did not like the rumors that surrounded them. Get married, Imrahil had urged more than once, or in other words, forget about this peculiarity of yours and do as every other man would do, turn away from what you know to be true and become someone else.

He would not leave this city. The captain of the guard had urged him to flee with the rest of the women and the children, but he was no coward! He would not hide and seek shelter, the lone man in all Gondor who turned away when the forces of Mordor came. Taregon was going; so was Erchirion and Elphir and his father. All his friends, the boys he had grown up with, distant cousins and uncles, his brother's brothers-in-law- all off to fight. He would not have them return and call him a coward, say he would not do his part.

Yesterday had been pandemonium, the fine ladies and their households packing every last scrap of silk and jewel they owned to be taken with them, butchers and bakers and smiths gathering their wares, children torn away from fathers, limping grandmothers and young, pregnant mothers, all headed away from the city, deeper into the relative safety of the countryside.

And where, he had thought, will you go when the world of men has fallen?

He kicked at a garden shrub. The darkness over the city is bleak and weighs heavily on his heart. He left the house to wander the circles, lost in thought and despair. His leg pained him; it always would.

A stupid accident took away his only chance of renown. Were it not for that ride- Lothíriel pleading with him to come with her, just for a little while- he could have been as good a warrior as his famous father or even Erchirion, called the great captain of Dol Amroth. He could have been as great as any of them!

Then, suddenly, he heard it, a shriek so terrible that it sliced through his bones to his very being. He could not move for a moment, reeling from sheer, blinding terror.

He heard someone shout, "They have come!" and Amrothos ran to the battlements to peer across the Pelennor, though he could barely move for terror. He glanced across the plains and saw the faint shapes of strange, swooping creatures.

"Black Riders of the air!" someone cried.

A child. What was a child doing here in the city?

But no, it was not child; it was a perian! Had his sister been there, she would have been curious, but such was Amrothos's terror that he could bring himself to study the creature. Black Riders! They swooped about the ground as though reaching for something, but he could not see what it was, for as they shrieked again he fell to the ground on his knees, wrapping his arms about himself.

"Make it stop!" he cried, for they continued to scream and he could not help but writhe in pain.

"Faramir!" someone shouted. "The Lord Faramir! It is his call!"

Faramir, but Amrothos could not raise himself to his feet to look. I cannot look. I will not look. It seemed to last forever, that anguish, but then suddenly he felt as though the burden on his shoulders had lifted, and stumbling, he rose to his feet to see a blazing white light somewhere far across the Pelennor.

"The White Rider!" someone called. "Gandalf, Gandalf!"

He let out his breath in sudden, beautiful relief as the- Riders, were they?- wheeled away and then he saw what they had been hunting: a lone horseman, accompanied by the strange White Rider.

Faramir, he thought, for as they drew closer he could make out his cousin's form, his tall, proud bearing. Those that had yet to leave the city were cheering, calling out their names: "Faramir! Mithrandir!"

Even recovering from such a harrowing ordeal, his cousin's face was composed but very grave; calm, cool, and collected. Faramir was much older than he, nearly eleven years older, and so Amrothos had always regarded him the strange, awed worship a man such as Faramir inspired in those younger than he. For as long as he could remember, Faramir had been very serious, more akin to Lothíriel or Erchirion than to Amrothos, but few could help but respect the Captain of Gondor. Mithrandir and Faramir clattered by, but Amrothos turned away, ashamed, for he would not let his cousin see the sheer terror in his face.

He let out a breath, for though the White Rider had, at least for now, defeated the Black Riders of the air, the shadow still weighed heavily upon his heart.

At least Lothíriel was safe.

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><p>She slept even more fitfully that night and had never been so relieved to hear a knock on the door, but when she asked Dánaron if morning had come, he shook his head.<p>

"There will be no dawn today," he said, and he took her to stand on the walls to look across the sea. The storm had at least quieted, leaving only a faint drizzle, but the sky above was as dark as though it were night, and she could feel the weight of the shadow on her shoulders and in her heart, as though there was a great despair that would never be lifted.

"We cannot leave, can we?" she asked him quietly, for in this gloom the Corsairs could have been as far as fifty or as close as a mile away. There was a strange, eerie quiet that pervaded the mist.

"No," he said.

She looked to the south, but could see nothing because of the heavy clouds that blanketed the sky. "Do they come?"

"They will come," he said, "but we will have little warning."

Fear tightened the knot in her stomach, but she felt his hand touch her shoulder.

"Chin up, Princess," he said. "You are a child of Dol Amroth; you have the blood of Númenór in your veins. If it had not been for your warning, the Corsairs would have descended out of this mist and we would have been caught unaware."

"I did not realize," she said, and her voice broke. She swallowed. She was afraid, but not so afraid that she would not give voice to her fear. "I did not realize, when we left Minas Tirith, that we could- die. That in riding to warn them, we might be killed."

Dánaron was silent. "I remember what is was, to fear death. But when you have seen it, Princess, you will understand that it is merely the next part of life."

Her laugh was unsteady. "I am so afraid! It is very well that say that is merely a part of life, but I am-," she stopped and could not finish.

"I have watched men die, and it is just as falling asleep."

"Yes, except more painful!"

He smiled very gently at her. "But a relief nonetheless. In any case, I do not think you need fear. I am no seer, nor do I have dreams that tell me the future, but I think you will survive. Now come. I have something for you."

She followed him back into the keep and into the rooms reserved for the soldiers; she waited outside while he went to his bunk and emerged, holding a sheathed knife.

"For you," he said.

She drew it out. It had both a plain blade and a plain handle, but when she touched her thumb to the edge, as she had seen her brothers do, she felt a sharp prick of pain.

"Ouch." She put her finger in her mouth and said around it, "It is sharp."

"Of course," he said drily. "Did you think I would give you a blunted blade? Little good it would do you."

"What is it for?"

Even more drily, he said, "In case you ever find yourself with a side of beef too thick for ordinary table knives. I hear orc meat is very tasty, if a little difficult to cut."

"I wish you would stop mocking me," she grumbled, but in truth she had come to like his dry humor. It reminded her- vaguely- of Éomer.

"I did not wish to give it you," he said, "for I think you would be best served to run instead of standing to fight."

"I am flattered by your confidence."

He gripped her forearm in sudden gravity. "Listen to me. I promised I would let no harm come to you, but if they storm the fortress I must fight."

"But your back!"

He lifted a shoulder. "It does not pain me."

"And what of you?" she asked gently. "You told me that I will survive. What of yourself?"

"I have many who wait for me beyond the veil. My wife. My children." He smiled, although it was rather grim. "I am not afraid to die, my lady."

She swallowed hard. "I understand."

"You will be careful," he said. "If- when - they attack, you will go downstairs and lock yourself in."

"And if they take the keep?"

"They will not," he answered very firmly.

She did not wish to fight, but felt compelled to point out, "If they take the keep, I will die."

"Yes," he said. "But I do not think that will come to pass."

"I hate your 'feelings'," she said, taking the blade.

"I have very little sympathy, Princess," he said. "The best way to hold a dagger is with the blade pointing from the heel of your hand, not like a hammer."

"I've never held a hammer in my life."

He did not crack a smile. "Like this. Jab downwards."

She felt foolish, striking at an invisible enemy, and said as much.

"Keep it safe," he said.

She strapped the sheath to the belt she wore about her waist. "I will. Thank you."

He grasped her shoulder as he might have had she been his son, his grip firm. "Remember what I said. You will weather this storm."

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><p>There was no morning when they set out from Harrowdale, and for a moment he could not move, so choked by gloom was he. Then he mustered every ounce of his strength to rise, for that day would be the day they rode for Gondor; he gathered his saddlebags and went to ready Firefoot. The stallion seemed to smell something in the air, for he was even more impatient than usual and was restless under Éomer's steadying hand.<p>

Long had he known that no man, not even he, the nephew of the King himself, was immune to death in the battle, for his father had fallen- his father, one of the greatest captains of his time. Though he knew this, for years he had ridden off to battle with an unconscious feeling of invincibility, for had not Théodred himself, the greatest warrior in all of Rohan, taught him to wield a spear? His cousin had drilled him for long hours in swordplay until his muscles ached and he could barely walk, and so when his time came to assume his role as the Third Marshal of the Mark, he felt little fear, for by that time he was already a seasoned warrior.

But now Théodred had fallen.

There was no confidence to be sought in his lineage, for the crown prince himself had been killed.

He was afraid, not just for himself but for the uncle he loved like a father, for the sister whom he wished he could keep safe forever. He had a vision of her, growing old and quiet and pale, sitting in the great throne of Meduseld, left cold and alone, the last of the House of Eorl. He had never thought to leave her, but fate could tear them apart just as it had taken their parents away.

"Peace," he murmured and gradually Firefoot quieted. Still, Éomer could hardly tame his own restlessness, for he was aware of a cold, silent dread that had settled over his shoulders. There was no dawn, no daylight, no warmth to be sought from the skies

A small sound and his hand went to his sword, but then he recognized the intruder.

"Éowyn," he said. "What troubles you?" He had never seen such despair in her eyes before and he felt a vague twinge of guilt for leaving her behind, but he could hardly stay with her, forsaking his place at his king's side.

"I came to bid you farewell," she offered. Her smile was wan and cold.

"We will return," he said. "Don't worry, Sister. I promise."

"Promise!" Her laugh was derisive. "And who are you to promise? Do you think yourself so mighty that you may defy even death?"

He grasped her hands tightly in his own, as if he could anchor her to him. "Listen to me. I would not have you grieve for us- promise me that you will find happiness."

"Let me ride with you," she said quietly. "Let me come. Why must I stay here, an exile?"

"Not an exile!" he said. "A warrior of the House of Eorl. It takes as much strength to lead the people as it does to fight."

"So you say. But still you would leave me behind."

He wished he could reach out to her and break the ice closing over her face. Once they had gone ice skating when they were just children, but the ice was too thin where she skated and she fell through and he could only reach for her hands as the ice began to form over her head. He had dragged her to safety then, barely, but this barrier was one he could break with raw strength, and he felt as though he was just a child again, except this time he could not help her and she did not fight to save herself.

"We will come home," he said, "and then we- Uncle and you and I- will rebuild Rohan. That is where we will find glory, Éowyn."

But still she turned away. "You will die," she said. "Just as Mother and Father died, as Théodred died. You and Uncle will be lost and I will be left a shadow."

"Do you look for doom?" he asked, but received no answer.

The sky was dark; day would not come, though the hour drew near. Firefoot shifted and whinnied; he steadied the horse.

"We ride soon," he said. "If you are so sure that only death awaits us, I have a favor to ask of you."

She lifted her chin, cold and silent as a spear.

Out of his saddlebags he drew the letter he had written; he weighed it for a moment in his palm and then handed it to her. "If I die, please give this to my friend."

"It is heavy," she said, mild curiosity fleeting across her face.

"I am returning something of hers." He was reluctant to give it up, almost as though by handing it over to his sister he was setting into stone the possibility of death. He had felt the same last night, weighing each word before he wrote it. He had little talent for diplomacy, preferring a sword to a quill, and so the sentences were bare and harsh, but they would have to do. When he had finished, signing his name, he had regretted the words, for he could not soften the blow; he was a warrior and his every movement had been coached to wound, not to soothe. Now he bitterly regretted that, for if they triumphed, there might be a time when swords could be laid aside.

"Who is... she?"

"An old friend," he said. "I've written instructions."

"Is she dear to you?"

"Yes," he said, "very dear." He saw her eyes flit to the letter and the instructions she had sealed about it. "But there are none so dear in this world as you are to me."

"You are a fool," she said bitterly, "to trust to hope."

"Better a fool than without hope," he answered. "When we return home, yours is the first face I will look for."

Never once- not as they rode out, Éomer at his uncle's right hand, followed by hundreds of Riders; not when they came to Edoras, the noonday sun dark and gloomy; not as they followed the path of the Snowbourn past the Entwash and the Fenmarch- did he consider that Éowyn might not be standing on the great steps in front of Meduseld waiting for him.

And so they rode hard for Gondor until all thoughts of anything but battle vanished from his mind, and even when riders brought news of great orc armies marching in the Wold of Rohan, they could not stop, could not halt what they had begun.

"Ride on! Ride on!" he cried. "Too late now to turn aside. The fen of the Entwash must guard our flank- haste now we need. Ride on!"

His uncle hesitated only a moment, then nodded, and they rode beyond the boundaries of the country, following the roads and the cold, silent mountains to Gondor, where the sky lay still and dark and shadowed.

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><p>AN: If you liked it/disliked it, I would appreciate a comment! :)


	10. The Corsairs of Umbar

A/N: Happy reading!

Thanks to all who have reviewed this story; I love you all, and your reviews make my day. Special thanks to **Lady Demiya**!

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><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-10-_

The Corsairs of Umbar

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><p><em>T.A. 3019<em>

_11 March_

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><p>"There at Pelargir lay the main fleet of Umbar, fifty great ships of smaller vessels beyond count." (<em>The Return of the King<em>, The Last Debate)

.

"Hope does not remain." (_The Two Towers_, The Riders of Rohan)

.

"But the Enemy has the move, and he is about to open his full game. And the pawns are likely to see as much of it as any!" (_The Return of the King_, Minas Tirith)

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><p>They came in the morning, appearing out of the fog like ghosts, the black ships with their sails full of the cold, damp wind that seemed to blow with unearthly strength, and not for the first time she thought that everything- their timing, their speed- hinted at some sort of sorcery.<p>

Galcherdir had thundered, "Mordor! It is some treachery of Mordor!" and at the time, no one had really paid him heed, but now she wondered, for just as the orcs marched on Gondor from the east, so the Corsairs sailed from the south.

Within minutes the men-at-arms standing upon the walls were ready- catapults, archers- and she heard voices rising over the curling mist, barking orders as more soldiers rushed to ring the walls, but still their numbers were far fewer than she had ever seen before, less than a third of its fighting force. She would have liked to stay there on the walls, at least for a little while, to see what was happening, but then Dánaron was there, grasping her arm with bruising force.

"Go to your room and lock the door," he ordered her and she moved to obey him. She saw Tercil standing atop the outer curtain wall shouting something to the archers and she thought she recognized Malurust not a hundred yards away, but then Dánaron turned, saw her lingering, and shouted at her again.

She went downstairs.

Lothíriel was not particularly fascinated with warfare, but she had grown up in a household of men devoted to the art of killing and knew enough of it to imagine what was happening. The ships would be passing by the island, skirting the shore, open all the while to their firepower. Perhaps the archers would shoot the sails full of fire arrows; a catapulted rock might collapse a mast or knock a whole in the side. Perhaps they would sail by, weathering the torrent, expecting the fortress to have been caught off guard, for after all, almost all of Gondor's armies had been called to defend the White City, but perhaps, recognizing how vulnerable they were, they would turn and attack the fortress, choosing to fight and draw the fire away from their precious ships.

The men on the walls were to few.

"Please," she whispered to whatever or whomever might be listened, "let them be safe."

* * *

><p>Legolas was singing, his voice low and mournful as the wind caught it and flung it across the shadowed fields:<p>

"_Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui_

_In the green fields of Lebennin!_

_Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea_

_The white lilies sway,_

_And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin_

_In the green fields of Lebennin,_

_In the wind from the Sea!"_

Aragorn's heart was just as heavy as his friend's and he knew what Legolas saw: the trampled fields of grass and flowers, darkened to grey by the perpetual gloom as though it were still night, the lands of Gondor cast deep into shadow. It seemed a barren land, quiet and without hope.

Elladan drew near to him. The sons of Elrond had been steady, quiet companions since they set out from Dunharrow, never flinching or seeming to weary, but now he said, "Estel, my brother, we must rest."

He felt the weariness that laid heavily on all their shoulders, oppressive as the darkness that cloaked the sky, but he felt also the coming shadow and so he said, "We cannot. Time is short as it is and I fear we will not reach Pelargir in time."

"Surely the garrison at Tolfalas can hold them," said Elladan, though his face grew more troubled. The sons of Elrond had seen a world of terror and darkness, but yet the hour was open to them to emerge into the light and it was so close- so close!- but yet so far.

"I think not," he said. "The prince of Dol Amroth will have drawn all the forces that he can away from his own lands to Minas Tirith."

"It may be so," Elladan replied at last, "but I think there is more at work here that we can see. Fate will not forsake us now, not when we are so close!"

"I have little hope left," he said quietly.

And it was Elladan who spoke the words that had carved the lines into his mother's face, the words that had become the burden that he himself took up. "_Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim_.* Keep some hope for yourself, Aragorn, for there is still some to be found, even in this darkness. We will have time."

* * *

><p>The first stones narrowly missed the mast of his ship and flaming arrows caught the sails; the men hurried to clamber up the rope ladders to put them out. He turned his eyes to the great stone walls and felt a strange sense of dread in his stomach, fear as he had not felt since he first drew a sword to kill a man.<p>

"They will not let us pass," he said and then turned to his second. "We will remain, and the next two as well. Send two others around the other side. Tell the rest of the fleet to retreat back along the coast. We will take the fortress."

"Yes, Captain," said the man and they both looked at the great line of black ships behind them, ready for battle. They would remain behind him, out of reach of the catapults until the fortress had fallen.

"Then we sail for the White City," he said. _The White City_. His father had told him tales of its beauty and its grandeur, but he himself had never laid eyes upon the city that could have once been his. To his second he said, "We must not delay. As soon as the fortress cannot harm us, we must pass. Give the word to the others."

Something in him stirred.

_I have a dream of Númenór, faded but not yet forgotten. One day it may come to pass. That day may be near._

"We take the fortress ourselves!" he cried and his men's voices mingled with his. In their faces he saw hunger, for to be a man of Umbar was to know starvation and thirst. To be a man of Umbar was to constantly scrounge for food and coin; to be a man of Umbar was to watch your children die and wither away like dry leaves.

But there was salvation yet, for the lord of Mordor had promised them land that had once been theirs.

"Men of Umbar!" he called to them. "The hour draws near! We will take back what is ours by right- never again will your children go hungry! Never again will you know want and death and despair! This land is ours!"

There was nothing left to lose, for the lives they led were shadowed, knowing only death and blood and hunger. Today they fought for the promise of something more, something beautiful and good.

The arrows were raining down on them as they turned the ship to shore, doing what no Corsair had done before: they would take the garrison of Tolfalas.

.

"They are coming," whispered the man beside him, and Dánaron saw the despair in his face. Hopelessness. Terror. Fear.

"Hold steady," someone ordered: Tercil. The man had a commander's voice, low and calm, lending his men confidence. "Hold the crossbows."

But some of the men were nervous and wanted to fire, though only the longbows had the range to reach the ships. One fired, the arrow falling far short.

"Hold!"

* * *

><p>The Drúadan was dark and shadowed and that evening he and his uncle sat together, speaking very little but both understanding the misery that lay upon the Rohirrim.<p>

"Éomer, my son," said Théoden and then he said no more, his eyes cast down.

"There is hope left still," he answered, quietly but with great strength.

"Yes," said Théoden. "Yes, but so dark it lies! I fear for Éowyn, for she walks in shadow. Cruel it was for her, to wait upon an old man in his dotage."

"Éowyn will be well," he said. "When we return, we will chase the shadow from our lands."

"You see much," said the king and Éomer was struck by another who had spoke those same words. "But I fear there is still much you do not see."

He bowed his head. He knew his shortcomings well: he was quick-tempered and not given to stillness, and so perhaps in his need for movement he had overlooked much that only a more thoughtful man would see.

"But there," said Théoden, "you counseled me to keep hope, and so we shall! Come, the scouts are returning, though I think they bear little but ill news. Dark times are these!"

* * *

><p>They brought out ladders and began to scale the wall; Dánaron, watching from the inner curtain wall, clenched a hand on his sword- he was no archer- and waited. Glancing around, he saw Tercil signal to him, and he withdrew to meet the commander of the garrison.<p>

"There are too many," Tercil said. "You come from the White City, from the Steward himself. What would the lord Denethor have us do?"

But he could give no orders, no reassurance. "He said nothing," for though the princess, not he, had spoken to the Steward, she had told him a little of what had transpired and there was nothing to be gained from him. Then, hesitating, for he seldom answered unasked questions, he added, "He is sunk deep into madness."

The lines in Tercil's face deepened. "We must surrender."

"This is no ordinary raid," he said. "They must be allied to Mordor. If we let them pass, they will sail straight for Minas Tirith."

"They will kill us all," said Tercil, "all in vain. Would that I could spare my men that fate."

"This is the greatest fortress of the western coast," he answered. "Is there nothing you can do?"

Something in the other man's eyes stirred and he bowed his head. "There may yet be one last card to play. But it will be a deadly one."

.

Lothíriel waited in unbearable silence, her hands clenched in between her knees to still the shaking and she thought she would rather stand amidst all that was happening than stay in her room as though in some sort of cocoon.

And who am I fooling, she thought, for when they take the fortress, I will be taken, too.

She thought of Dánaron's wife, dead by her own hand because she would not be taken by the Corsairs and Lothíriel knew that she had no such strength.

.

The Corsairs of Umbar came in great waves, and though they broke on their arrows and swords and the great stone walls, there were always more to take their place, like the inexorable rush of the sea, pushing past the outer wall and then the inner, and finally Dánaron lifted his sword to draw blood.

The first stroke was jarring, for it had been some months since he had seen battle, and the pain in his back stirred, but then he fell into the comfortable rhythm of long-practiced movement, parrying the man's cutting arc, reaching an attack of his own. He caught the Corsair in the shoulder; the man stumbled and he lunged in for the kill, wetting his sword through.

"For Gondor!" someone was crying and he turned just in time to catch another attack, forcing the blade away from his chest. He was rusty, for his back had made heavy practice unbearable, and he faltered, nearly catching a stab through the chest, but he flung himself to the ground and thrust his sword upwards.

Two.

He lost himself; he cut and parried and thrust until his blade was red with blood- man's blood, was this, not orc- and he felt a sudden burst of pain across his arm; a knife slid across his shoulder and he jerked backwards.

"Retreat!" came the faint cry, and then their commander took it up, louder: "Retreat! Fall back to the keep!"

One strong stroke took off his opponent's arm; he felt the faint resistance as the blade passed through bone and then a final tug and it came free. The man feel to his knees and Dánaron ran him through, and then he ran to join his fellows, pulling back to the meager safety of the keep.

Already the walls were littered with the bodies of their own dead, their blood mingling with that of the Corsairs, and yet more Corsairs came, pouring over each other to reach the doors of the keep just as they slammed them closed, barricading them with whatever they could find.

The commanders were huddled and he went to join them; even Galcherdir's fire was dimmed as he wiped sweat away.

"Surrender," he said, and then again, "by the Valar, Tercil! You have to surrender."

"I will not. If we fall, they go on to Minas Tirith."

Surprisingly, it was Malurust who came to his commander's aid. "You are a fool, Galcherdir, that you would seek to spare yourself. I will fight them to the death, my Captain."

"There is a way," said Tercil. "We cannot defeat them all, but at least we may take those here."

"Then let's do it!" said Galcherdir. "What are you waiting for?"

Tercil turned his head to look at the men who worked to barricade the doors, even as they heard muffled shouts from outside. They would be bringing the rams to break down the doors, and then there would be nothing left.

.

He was streaked with the blood of lesser men, buoyed by the feral, animalistic joy that bloodbath bought, surrendering to something baser in himself. Here there were no illusive dreams but only that which was purely human, the pounding euphoria in his veins that clamored for more blood.

"The rams!" he shouted, and there they were, the men bearing the great weights of the battering rams to knock down the doors. The keep was almost theirs.

Then onto the White City.

"Break down the doors!" he called to them, raising his sword high above his head.

.

She knew they were coming closer and from high above her she could hear the cries and the pounding of the battering ram as though it went through her entire body. That was when she understood with sudden, blinding terror that she was going to die and suddenly life seemed all the more precious to her, all the more sacred now that it was nearly lost and she remembered all that she held dear and that she had yet to do.

And so Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth, went to her knees on the cold stone of the floor, clumsily and uncomfortably, for a princess was not born to kneel, and she clasped her hands in her lap and wondered what she had done in her life that was worth anything.

When I die, she thought, what will I have left behind me?

And the answer was nothing, for she was not certain that she liked the child she had been. Reckless, which in it of itself was no crime, but worse, she had been uncaring. She was like some huge strange creature, barreling through the woods without concern for whatever it was she crushed underfoot. How simple it had been, to surround herself with what was pretty and simple and pleasant, ignoring whose dreams or hopes she wrecked along the way.

If I survive, she vowed, I will do better.

And then she heard a terrifying crash from up above her and she knew that they'd broken through the doors.

I have to get out of here, she thought, for there was no lock on the door. She dragged herself to her feet and pushed open the door.

.

With one last momentous heave, the doors came down, splintering before the brute force of the battering ram, and the few men that were left lunged backwards, swords at the ready. Then came the Corsairs.

They were lost in the crush, like whirling eddies in a stream, and his world became the choreography of his blade, rising, falling, spurting blood, the slash across his back, the barely parried thrust to his chest, and then he was fighting beside Tercil, shoulder to shoulder, camaraderie as he had almost forgotten existed.

The captain's face was set in lines of uncharacteristic indecision and then, catching Dánaron's eye, he shouted, "Draw the men back to the far side of the keep! Don't let them follow!"

He saw Galcherdir fall, just out of reach, a sword thrust through his chest; the Corsair put a foot on the body to tug his blade free.

"What about you?" he shouted back.

"I need to do it!"

And Dánaron understood, saw the decision in the captain's eyes. "Let me," he said.

Tercil barely dodged a stroke of a sword that would have taken off his head. "No."

He did not have the breath to explain- _you must stay here, lead the retreat, they will listen only to you, I have waited for this moment_- but then Tercil nodded. "Go, then!"

And he did.

.

He drew back for a moment to watch them, the sparse ragged handful of defenders left, held together only by their desperation and their commander. He tracked the man with his eyes, for he did not try to be inconspicuous, shouting orders above the din, and as he watched, the commander drew close to another soldier, nearly losing his head in the process, and then the soldier drew away.

He followed, slicing a path through the mass of struggling bodies after the man who did not flee but left on his commander's orders, his shoulders set with purpose.

.

The keep was a labyrinth, full of twisting spiral staircases and long hallways that all looked exactly the same, but she knew it well. She and her cousins had found out the secret a long time ago: to hide, always go down and forwards, never to the left or right, for the belly of the keep was a veritable labyrinth of halls and storerooms and dead ends, though by the time they were ten they had learned it all by heart.

Down she went, the way lit only very faintly by torches thrust into wall brackets; she kept one hand on the wall for balance, for the stairs were winding and narrow.

Footsteps.

Someone was coming.

.

The keep was a labyrinth, full of twisting spiral staircases and long hallways that all looked exactly the same, and Dánaron felt as though he was descending into an underworld, so twisting and confusing were the passages.

"Go," Tercil had said and he went, pushing past the struggling soldiers and down a flight of stairs, and another. The commander had explained, briefly and vaguely, where the room laid, somewhere in the lowermost levels of the keep, but the farther down he went the more he began to realize that he was losing his way, that he had no idea where he was, and behind him he heard footsteps.

He was being followed, and he didn't know where he was.

.

The keep was a labyrinth, full of twisting spiral staircases and long hallways that all looked exactly the same, and to judge by the slowing sound of footsteps ahead of him, the man did not know where he was going, either. Perhaps he had misjudged and the man was fleeing- a deserter, someone of no consequence. But his instincts were seldom wrong and he had seen the soldier's face: eyes blazing, jaw set, and he knew immediately that he was doing Something, whatever that Something might be.

He had to be stopped.

.

They were coming closer. She pressed herself to the wall and drew the knife.

.

He began to move again, faster, hoping to lose the Corsair who followed him, just out of sight, like a strange, lurking, nameless shadowy fear. He had sheathed his sword for speed, arms stretched out for balance, and rounding a corner, he saw something move and then he was being knocked to the ground with a clatter, sudden blinding pain in his shoulder.

He shouted her name. "Lothíriel!" and instantly he felt her move.

"Dánaron?" The princess looked very dazed, crouched on the ground, her knife red with _his _blood. His shoulder burned.

"I told you to stay in your room!" he snapped, furious. Could she not have listened to him? Now the Corsair could find him again-

"There isn't a lock!" Her eyes were wide and frightened.

He would get very angry with her very soon, but now there was no time, and suddenly he remembered that she knew this fortress like the back of her hand. He grabbed her shoulder. It was too much to hope that she knew, but-

"Tercil says there's blasting powder here. Where is it? Somewhere in the cellars-,"

For a moment her face was just blankly terrified. "What? I don't know- Dánaron, someone's coming!"

He slapped her. Hard. "Get me into the cellars!"

She began to run. His shoulder hurt like nothing else- his entire body ached and screamed with pain, cuts and bruises all across his face, his chest barely padded by a stiff leather jerkin.

"Faster," he ordered.

.

The man had almost vanished completely- he had lost all sound of him, but then suddenly he heard a _thud _and then voices, one deep and the other a young woman's, higher, but panicked.

He began to run again; he had almost caught them.

.

"Fall back!" Tercil cried over the din of clashing swords and dying men, "fall back!" There were only a handful of men left- maybe two dozen- and, barely blocking a dagger thrust, he led them back, disengaging from the Corsairs and running for the west side of the fortress where one last portcullis would guard the way, at least for now.

"Back!"

They ran; Tercil was the last to follow, a blow catching him on the arm. He cried out in pain but ran the man through, pulled out his sword, and then brought up the rear. Malurust, the last of his commanders left alive, was lowering the portcullis, and he barely made it through, ducking underneath it, scraping his head along the bottom.

"Go, go!" he shouted. It would not hold them for long, but they needed to get away, for all the west side would be gone.

If Dánaron found the blasting powder. If he managed to detonate it. If he did not lose his nerve.

.

_Blasting powder_?

"I'm sorry about your shoulder," she called to him, her voice wheeling into squeaking panic, "I thought you were-,"

"Quiet!"

She almost didn't recognize him, this strange blood-stained man, his face twisted in ferocity. Her feet were loud on the stone floors, echoing the _thump-thump-thump _of her heart, and her hands were dripping with sweat, so much so that she could barely hold the knife. It was dripping with blood. Dánaron's blood.

A closet there, where Galador had jumped out to scare her. She had been so frightened that she tripped and nearly broke her nose.

Down these stairs, where she and Amrothos had lurked, hoping to catch the chance to grab their cousins' ankles as they came running down.

Around a sharp, twisting corner, down another flight of stairs into the bowels of the castle, where the air was cold and still and vaguely musty. Once Amrothos had taken her cousin Saelorn and Lothíriel here and told them a ghost story, then locked them in a storeroom full of half-emptied barrels of ale.

Her breath tore at her throat and she could hear something- someone?- behind them.

Another flight of stairs, and then she said, "This is the lowest level, but there's nothing here!" Nothing, that is, besides barrels of mead and flour and piles of half-rotten turnips.

"The east side," he ordered, and she frowned. The east side? That would be the side that faced the mainland… "Hurry!"

She caught a glimpse of the someone rounding the corner and she began to run again, pushing open a heavy wooden door. The east side. Over here, then, past one of the now-emptied armories and then-

_You are never to go down there._

Boromir's hand on her shoulder, face set in lines of anger and maybe even a little fear.

_You could have gotten yourself killed!_

"Here," she said, words tumbling over each other in sudden haste, "I remember!" She turned suddenly down a hallway, a dead end, seizing a torch from its bracket with a terrible clattering- "Quiet!" he hissed- and shoved it into his chest. He grabbed it and she knelt, pushing away the braided rug that she only vaguely remembered, and then she dug her fingers into the faint cracks in the stone floor.

He was coming closer; she heard the pounding of his feet and soon his breath in steady, rhythmic bursts that echoed along the corridors. Her hands were shaking too hard; she dropped the trapdoor onto her fingers.

"Ouch!"

"Hurry!"

She tried again, this time flinging the door open. It fell with a _thud _against the stone and she peered into the blackness.

Dánaron thrust the torch at her; she held it while he set a foot on the first rung and then he took it from her, his hands hurried and rough.

"Go," he ordered, "as fast as you can, to the west side!"

She did not hesitate, pushing herself to her feet, ignoring smarting fingers and aching lungs.

"Lothíriel," he said, "run!"

She turned back only to glance at him very briefly and he caught her eye for a moment, and then was gone, disappearing into the blackness with only the flickering light of the torch.

.

Voices; a clatter. He hesitated at a split and then went to the left. The voices grew louder. He unsheathed his sword.

Someone was rounding the corner with hurried footsteps and gasping breaths.

He would have caught that someone by surprise, except so stunned was he to see a girl there that for a moment he could not move. Then he regained himself, lunging in for the kill, but she fell backwards, out of reach of his sword.

He followed her, jabbing his blade downward, but it caught the stones just a bare inch from her exposed neck. For a moment he felt pity: she was young, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with huge frightened eyes, and he could see the bones in her face, the tendons in her neck.

_I have a dream of Númenór_, he thought, and then he thought of the soldier who was not a deserter, the soldier who ran for something, not from something, the soldier who had a plan. This girl was in his way. This girl would take away his dreams, his city, his life.

But that moment of hesitation had been enough for her; white hot pain in his wrist, and he saw his own blood, bright red blood. She had cut him, the knife biting down deep through muscle and into bone. He roared in feral pain and the sword fell from his hand, beyond reach of his left hand. He began to move to reach for it, but then she stirred to fling herself aside, to rise and run.

He stopped and reached for her throat with her left hand, straddling her, his knees and weight lending his weaker hand power.

.

The doors would not hold; it was merely an iron gate and a set of wooden double doors, and once the Corsairs brought up the battering ram, they would do no good.

"Faster!" he ordered. The keep was split into two parts, the east and the west side, and if they could get to the west, they would be out of reach of the blast.

But if Corsairs broke through the doors-

It would have to be now.

Dánaron had to set off the blasts now or it would be lost.

.

He nearly dropped the torch as he lowered himself with more haste than caution down the ladder, raising it to reveal the shelves of glass jars, all containing a strange, fine black powder.

Blasting-powder, the captain had told them, huddled in the corner behind the barricaded keep doors. It will bring the east side down. We must hope the west side will be safe.

Let me do it, he had said to him later, amidst the press of the fear and the men, the Corsairs crashing upon the doors outside. Tercil has hesitated then, for it was his duty as a commander to do what he could not ask of any other, but in Dánaron's eyes he must have seen some measure of his life, for he had relented.

Raising the torch, he said aloud, "I am coming home," and it was an exhale, the words like soothing balm on a wound. Amidst the turmoil of the world, this had been his consolation: he had something waiting for him when it came to the end.

He knocked the jars off the shelves, glass shattering on the ground. The jars lay in splinters across stone, the black powder in heaps. He raised the torch.

.

She could not breathe.

.

There was something seductive about strangulation- something strangely artistic and gracelessly beautiful. The first time he had been revolted but he had known then he must do it, for if he were to find his land of Númenór he would need to be strong. He could not flinch.

Beautiful and thrilling, the way a body thrashed beneath him, at first fiercely and then more faintly, the dying struggle, the pulsing beneath his hand.

His wrist was screaming in pain; the girl had dealt him a good, hard blow, and had she been stronger she might have parted his hand from his arm. But now she lay underneath him, her arms and legs falling more weakly, hands fluttering at his face, at his grip on her throat, weakening, flailing. Her legs were thrashing, beating on the floor, her back arching up to him as her face reddened, her pulse and his heart singing a strange sensually erotic rhythm, and he was thrilled by the power he felt, the power that obliterated the screeching pain in his wrist, wiping away all else but the death he wielded.

Dying.

.

Out of the panic in her mind she managed one, single, rational thought and let her arms and legs relax, as though she were dead. Her head was swimming, her face hot; she could not breathe, _could not breathe could not breathe _his hands were hard, his knees pressing into her, _could not breathe I need to breathe _and then she flung her hand out for the knife she had dropped and plunged it upwards with her last bit of strength, forcing it into his chest as hard as she could, hilt pressed into her palm as Dánaron had taught her.

_Dánaron._

The Corsair's grip on her relaxed and she arched her back towards him, thrusting the knife deeper into his body. Then she flung him away with some deep resevoir of power, coughing, retching, screaming, gasping in pain.

He stirred on the floor, not yet dead, reaching for her ankle, and she tripped, her knees slamming into the stone floor painfully. Her head spun. She wanted to faint.

The blasting-powder. She needed to get away. She wrenched her ankle out of his grip and ran for all she was worth, ignoring her spinning, whirling head and the pain in her ankle. She had to run.

.

He hesitated for just a moment, the torch poised in his hand.

_Lothíriel_, the strange princess-child he had not liked at first (spoiled, selfish) and then the vulnerable little girl he had come to know and finally the dawning promise of a clever, beautiful young woman- he would give her just a moment so she could get away.

_Run_, he thought. _Run_.

A breath, a heartbeat of a moment.

And then he thought of his wife, his children.

I am coming home to you, beloved. My children, your father is coming to you at last.

He dropped the torch.

And then he saw nothing more.

.

He could not breathe; each breath brought a fiery white pain in his chest where the demon-child had thrust the knife.

Not a demon, he thought, a child of Númenor.

How many have I slaughtered for my own dream, he wondered, a dream I will never see. He closed his eyes and thought of the white sand, the white city, the rolling green fields and golden stalks of grain, a land that should have been his.

It was dead to him now.

.

They were breaking in; Tercil could hear the battering ram and he thought, _Dánaron, where are you?_

To the men who were left, he said, "Ready yourselves to fight." Not a one of them was left unscathed. He did not turn his head to look at his arm but knew that something was very wrong with it, but he raised his sword, clenched in his right hand, and said, "We will die for Gondor!"

Another thud.

They were coming.

.

She ran, hobbling, coughing, but she did not cry; her eyes were dry and tearless. She thought of nothing but running, as fast as she could, flinging herself at the great doors that marked the eastern keep.

For a moment they did not move and once she would have sank to her knees and wept, but she flung herself at them again and they gave, creaking as if the hinges were rusty, and then she slammed them shut and ran up another flight of stairs until her breath tore at her bruised and aching throat, running as fast as she could, up and to the west.

_Boom_.

It knocked her off her feet; stones clattered and rained down from the ceiling above her, the explosion shaking the entire keep, and she flung herself down upon the ground with barely enough time to raise her arms to cover her head.

Pain, and she saw no more.

* * *

><p>*"I gave Hope to the Dúnedain, I have kept no hope for myself." Originally said by Gilraen, Aragorn's mother, at their last parting. Aragorn's name, "Estel," of course means "hope."<p>

Reviews?


	11. A Ghost Story

A/N: As you can see, Nostos is currently undergoing some construction. Chapter 1 has been reposted, with a full explanation. PLEASE, if you have not already done so, re-read Chapter 1 so that you understand the changes I've made. They're kind of big, as in, you won't understand some of this chapter if you don't read the new version of Chapter 1.

Reviews are, as always, appreciated. Thanks for your patience.

Started: 25 August 2012

Finished: 3 September 2012

Posted:

Here begins **PART 2**

* * *

><p><em>Nostos<em>

_-11-_

_The Ghost Story_

* * *

><p>F.O. 73<p>

Minas Tirith

* * *

><p>"And we shouldn't be here at all, if we'd known more about it before we started. But I suppose it's often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of sport, as you might say. But that's not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seemed to have been just landed in them usually- their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn't." (<em>The Two Towers<em>, The Stairs of Cirith Ungol)

.

_I haven't much time left now to write to you- just a good-bye. No time, when most dear is time now to me. We ride tomorrow for Gondor, and I feel it in my bones that we come to an end of sorts. If I do not live to see you once more, I would have you know that your words have been to me a light in many a dark place. Would that I could say to you all that must be said to one who has been so dear to me, for so long. If I survive, you shall never read these words._

- Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, to Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth (unsent and unread)

* * *

><p>"The archives?" he said.<p>

"Yes, my lord."

Eldarion Telcontar, crown prince of the united kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, finally gathered up his bottom jaw, which in the course of the short conversation had found its way to the floor. The page boy looked very nervous, as if he was somehow responsible for the resulting deformity in his prince.

"I believe you just informed me that Alphros, Prince of Dol Amroth, has not only abandoned his sea-drenched mausoleum and ventured into the White City, but has also dragged his old creaking bones into the _archives_?"

The poor boy opened and closed his mouth. Eldarion took pity on him. "Never mind. Er, thank you."

He fumbled in a pocket for a coin. He ought to take up the pages' cause with his father; they weren't paid enough to live in the same city as their prince. Valar knew that it had taken every single ounce of his mother's patience- acquired over two thousand years of life- to raise him to adulthood without flinging him

Strange, that he and Alphros had managed to become such good friends, given that the Prince of Dol Amroth was some forty years older than he. But then, Alphros understood the burden of being born to living legends. Certainly Imrahil had not Elessar Telcontar's fame, but still, Alphros's grandfather had been no small figure. Both men had managed to raise, Eldarion thought with a rueful chuckle, abnormally spoiled children. Spoiled rotten, his uncle Éomer had called them. Alphros had outgrown the phase, as had Eldarion. Still, Eldarion never thought the day would come when he would find Alphros in the archives.

Once upon a time, they had both been young. His uncle Alphros had been the talk of the town then, always had a new lady on his arm and a flask in his hand. He had taught Eldarion to hold his drink well, but that had been before the king and queen had sent Eldarion away, to the Elves left in Middle-Earth.

It was fall in Minas Tirith; the leaves were turning crimson and gold and yellow, carpeting the stones in scarlet. Winter was a promise in the air. Eldarion wound his way through the levels of the city until he found the archives.

In the archives the air was close, warm and still, like the belly of some great beast. Its caretaker, Parvion, was- in the words of the Steward himself- a cantankerous old man. In the words of Eldarion's father, the man had spent too long buried with his relics, and not enough time among the living.

Upon seeing him, Parvion scowled. "Good, good. The Prince is here. Hasn't been drinking, has he?"

Alphros's reputation, it seemed, had preceded him.

"I should hope not," said Eldarion.

"Good." Parvion looked uneasily about the vast maze that housed some of Gondor's most sacred writings. "He's got a lamp with him, covered, but if he sets so much as a corner on fire, I shall set fire to him."

"Understood."

Parvion's hands, though aged, were steady as he lit a glass-enclosed candle for Eldarion.

"Thank you," he said, and set out to find the Prince of Dol Amroth.

His friend and distant relation was buried amidst the debris that accompanied any halfway decent library. The scrolls he had spread across tables looked to be in fine condition- recent, then, not remnants from ages long past.

"Cousin," said Eldarion courteously, setting aside his light. His cousin did not _look_ drunk, though he looked very old. It had been many years since they had last seen each other, and the Prince's hair had gone completely white, the flesh wrinkling and folding over protruding bones.

Alphros started, then a smile spread across his face as he glanced up. "Why, Eldarion! You must have run to have appeared so quickly."

"Or perhaps my legs are not so wearied as yours," said Eldarion, clasping the other man's forearm affectionately. He tried not to see how thin Alphros had become, how the flesh had begun to sag and distort the once-sharpened features. His cousin was aging. How old was he? Nearing on eighty, he thought. Eldarion himself was not yet four-and-forty, but the blood of Númenor ran strong in his veins, so that he looked as a man half his age.

"That is true," said Alphros ruefully. "Long days in the saddle are beastly. I remember now that it is not your city I despise, but the journey."

"If you so detest it, what brings you here?"

The other man shrugged. Then he said, "You received my letter?"

"Yes- a week past. It was… intriguing."

"Intriguing?"

"Very," Eldarion nodded. "It was true? All of it?"

Alphros snorted. "If it were not true, then I would not be here."

Eldarion felt his mouth twitch. "I had expected you would be at the taverns."

"Ah, the Frog," said Alphros with relish. "You remember that one?"

"Of course I do- it is hardly forgettable."

"That man could drink."

Pints, in matters of minutes, if Eldarion's memory served him correctly. But then the memories that survived nights on the town with Alphros were far and few.

"He used to play those ghastly songs on that lute of his," said Alphros dreamily. "And when one had to use the necessary- d'you remember that one?"

"Of course."

Raising his voice an octave or two, Alphros began to sing, "We know where you going, we know-,"

"Alphros!" hissed Eldarion. "We are in the _archives_!"

"Oh yes." The Prince looked as sheepish as a man of eighty could manage. "Apologies."

"Now you've done it. Parvion will come and throw us out."

And indeed, the esteemed master of the archives did appear within due course; his scowl was formidable. Eldarion bowed quickly and kicked Alphros's ankle. "Apologies, Master Parvion. It will not happen again."

"See that it does not." He sealed it with a scowl before stalking off.

"How did he find us so quickly?" Alphros wanted to know. "This place is massive-,"

"Alphros," Eldarion interrupted, "what in the name of the Valar are you doing here?"

"Ah, yes." Alphros's shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked very old, the animation fading from his face. "About that. I wanted to see if my aunt's story was recorded. Here is all I could find pertaining to Dol Amroth during the War-," a sweep of his hand encompassed the scrolls and parchment on one of the long tables, and very nearly sent one of the ingenious little lamps to the floor; Eldarion moved quickly to steady it. "I found a brief mention of the battle at Tolfalas."

Eldarion went to look through the records. They were well-preserved compared to much that was housed here; most records had been copied and the originals stored elsewhere, in case of fire or disaster, but even so, most were in poor shape. "Alphros," he said slowly, "why have you here an account of the Rohirrim's journey to Gondor?"

Something like embarrassment settled on the Prince's face. "It is a whim."

"Do share."

"I wondered if perhaps my aunt had managed to happen upon the Rohirrim on her ride back to the city, once Tolfalas had been defeated."

At this, Eldarion laughed aloud. "What a thought! You know well that the Rohirrim rode from the north, and the Queen from the south." Alphros did not flinch, and Eldarion hesitated. "What is it?"

"She told me," he said slowly, "a ghost story." He unfurled a great map. "I have found the records of the commander of the fortress, a man called Tercil the One-Handed."

"What sort of a name is that?"

"He lost his hand at Tolfalas," explained Alphros. "His diaries are preserved at Dol Amroth and they tell a little of the battle there."

"Do they mention your aunt?"

"Only briefly. The battle itself is only very quickly sketched."

"Many men do not wish to remember defeat," said Eldarion.

"Yes," said Alphros. "I imagine, rather, that he was too wearied, and too grieved, to remember. Or else he never intended his writings for the eyes save his own, and such a memory was burned into his mind."

Eldarion nodded. He could remember with dizzying clarity the battles he had fought. Gondor knew peace now, yet the prince had seen enough blood to make him a warrior. So had been his father's insistence, though his advisors had balked at the thought of the king's only son in harm's way. "What says Tercil the One-Handed?"

Alphros tapped a gnarled finger on the map. "I remember him well, and liked him. He spent some years in Rohan as my aunt's chief guard. In his journals he sets out the path they took. From here," he stabbed his index finger at the Ethir Anduin, "they rode along the Anduin, passing through Pelargir and through Lebennin and Lossarnach before crossing the river into the White City."

"What of this ghost story?"

"She told me," said Alphros slowly, frowning, "that in Pelargir, she dreamt of a ghost."

.

So, thought Lothíriel calmly, I am dreaming.

It was the same sort of dream that had found her upon the hill, watching as her cousin was killed. A true dream, then.

She looked around and saw that she was in a wood. The trees were thick and dark, but here and there she saw firelight and smelled smoke. The trees seemed to sigh very softly, and the air that settled on her skin was very chill.

The dream seemed so lucid that for a moment she wondered if it truly was a dream. But no- she remembered falling asleep on the cold hard ground, somewhere outside of Pelagrir. Or was it? She couldn't quite remember. The days of hard riding from Tolfalas to Minas Tirith seemed to blend together, the weariness sinking deep into her bones.

"Hello?" she called. She trudged on. Behind the trees lurked shadows.

"I suppose," she said to the dark emptiness, "I am here for some reason. Would you please tell me why?"

The wind sighed through the trees, but it seemed to her that it tugged at her. _This way_, it seemed to say.

Lothíriel followed, and, navigating an uneven patch, came around a great oak tree to make out a dark form.

"Good evening," she said cautiously. Was it human? Well, whatever it was, it did not seem to have heard her. She drew closer until she was only a few feet away, and saw that it was a man. His back was to her, and he gleamed dully in heavy armor. His head, though was bare, and she saw that his hair was bright and fair. There was something familiar about the tense lines of the broad, proud shoulders, and she drew closer, circling about him. If only she could see his face!

Footsteps crunched from behind Lothíriel. "My lord," said the approaching figure, and the seated man turned and raised his head.

_Éomer_.

The breath deserted her lungs, or so it seemed; she gasped. How she knew him, she did not understand. How many years had it been? Yet she recognized him with sudden, blinding awareness, and she called his name.

"Over here, Éothain," he said, as if she had not spoken. "I am well."

"Éomer!" she said again, more desperately. She could not tear her eyes from his face.

"_There _you are," said another man. He too was armored, his helm in his hand. "What troubles you? I tell you what, you just need something to drink." He proffered a flask. "I have been saving it." He was bare inches from Lothíriel, and she reached out, experimentally brushing at his shoulder, but he did not even flinch.

Éomer drank some and pulled a face. "That tastes like mule piss!"

His friend roared with laughter. "Who says it isn't?"

Grinning now, Éomer stood in one fluid motion. "Dreadful stuff. I've drank better in the meanest of ale-houses. You may have it."

"You look like hell," his friend said bluntly. "You need it more than I do."

"I am fine."

"If you say so. At least come by the fire- this forest is strange." He looked about himself uneasily, his eyes passing over ghost-Lothíriel as though she did not exist.

"It's alive," said Éomer.

"Unnatural," said Éothain.

"There are ghosts here," said Éomer, as though he had not heard his friend.

"Éomer!" she cried, as loudly as she could, and he started, unsheathing his sword in a breath. He heard her! Emboldened, she went to him, to grasp his arm, but though her hand rested on his flesh, he did not seem to feel it. "Éomer!"

"What is it?" asked Éothain.

"Someone called me," said Éomer. "Did you not hear? Someone said my name."

"I heard naught but the wind through the trees. Éomer, come with me; you are not yourself."

"No," said Éomer, "no, I am not."

Éothain's brow was furrowed. "Friend," he said quietly, "I know not where you wander, but come back with me."

"Can't you hear me?" Lothíriel asked him. She tightened her grasp on his arm, and he shivered suddenly.

"Yes," he said decisively, "I could use something to drink, and eat. Tomorrow we ride on."

"To death and glory," said Éothain, with the air of one long accustomed to such rhetoric.

"To death," said Éomer bleakly, "and mayhap glory, but certainly death."

Lothíriel watched as the two of them left her, wending their way about the trees, towards the distant fires and voices and smoke, and she felt very alone.

"Éomer?" she called again softly. Then she said, more to herself and the trees than to anyone in particular, "It is not fair, you know. Why can I not speak to him? It is almost worse to see and not speak than to know nothing at all. May I go back now, if I can do nothing more? I would have liked to say good-bye."

She heard movement behind her.

"Tell me what troubles you."

Lothíriel spun around, her heart in her mouth. She knew that voice, and, turning, she recognized the darkened figure that stood at her shoulder. "Dánaron!"

He smiled at her, kindly and quietly. He was shrouded in darkness, but she made out the gentleness in his eyes, the peace in his stilled form. "Princess Lothíriel."

"What are you-?" She could not finish her thought.

"I wanted to say good-bye, and then I will pass through the veil," he said.

"You waited for me? To say good-bye?" The tightness in her heart loosened just a little.

"Time is very different here." There was peace in his face. "You must not blame yourself."

"No?" she asked and sat cross-legged on the ground. "I was the one who brought you to Tolfalas."

"Tercil would have lit the powder and blown the fortress but I took his place. Long have I wished for an honorable death."

"Did it hurt?"

He thought for a moment. As usual, he measured his words carefully and gravely as he spoke. "For half a moment, it hurt very much. And then I was at peace. And this peace- it is worth more than all the pain of the world."

"I don't want to die," she said very quietly but very fiercely. "I am so afraid."

"You are stronger than you could ever imagine," he said, and she thought of another who had written those very words to her. "You did not die at Tolfalas. No matter what comes to pass," he said, "you will find the strength to survive."

She closed her eyes and then, suddenly, blindingly, she knew he was right. She raised her chin- she was her father's daughter - and said, "I _will _be strong."

"I know," he said. "You ride now to Minas Tirith?"

"Yes, with the men who are left. Tercil leads us- they think to join with the armies in the White City. We have heard in Pelargir that we did not fight in vain."

"No?"

"No," she said. She wanted to take his hand, but feared that she would find he was made of nothing but air. "No, we held the Corsairs long enough that a great force came to Pelargir, and there defeated the Corsairs."

"Well," he said, "then we- _you _- have succeeded."

"Wait!" she cried as he made to rise. "Éomer- will he die? Why am I here?"

"Nothing is for certain," said Dánaron.

"You must leave me now, mustn't you?" she asked him.

"I am going home," he said.

"Oh," she said faintly. "Well, then this is good-bye."

"Not good-bye," he said.

"Will I see you again?"

"Do not be afraid," he said. "At the end of all things, I will bring you home."

"You promise?"

"I promise," he said gravely. "I will not leave you." He turned and suddenly, his face was illuminated, as though the sun shone upon him, and he stepped away. In a moment, he was gone.

She felt the loneliness only for a moment before the darkness swelled about her. Someone was shaking her body, telling her it was time to wake, and she remembered that they were to ride on today.

Yes, she thought, I must go home. For now.

* * *

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